Collision
by The Feesh
Summary: What happens to a Mustang when a garbage truck T bones it at 60 mph? I don't know. Neither did Barricade. Bayverse, post 2007 movie. Reviews are what keeps me going.
1. Awakening

Chapter I

Collision

By: Landray Depth Charge

It was bright.

Very, very bright.

Barricade's muddled mind had yet to finish booting up, even so, it was trying to assess where it was that he'd wound up.

Fuzzed sensors turned online with all the speed of dialup Internet, slowly sweeping over his current surroundings. Once he got past the blinding light and his optic sensory array adjusted to it, the first thing he saw was what appeared to be a workbench to his left. To his right, another car, one he didn't recognize. That wasn't what startled and worried the Decepticon; it was the fleshbag humans working on the other car that did. More systems rebooted, and with each one came a little more of Barricade's consciousness. He was in a garage, beneath lights. Vaguely, the Ford Mustang likened it to being on the operating table back home, and he remembered just how _pleasant_ those moments tended to be. Having ones innards pulled out and worked on while one was still very much awake was not an experience Barricade ever wanted to relive. Like a gunshot, it hit him as his internal computer resumed full working capacity:

He was in a _garage._

Someone was _touching_ him.

And, oh sweet Primus above, the _**pain**__._

The man draped over the Ford's backseat paused as the vehicle shuddered, literally, underneath him. Sitting up, he reached up with a well worked and well-dirtied hand, plucking the smashed cigarette from between his lips as the grease monkey slid back out of the car. "Awake finally, eh?" he drawled, accent heavily New York.

Barricade just sat there, still.

Mike's coworkers didn't even look up. "Looks like ya took quite the hit," the

repairman continued, undaunted by the silence. "I juss got ya in here an' I'm workin' on

th' pass'ger side, hammerin' out th' dent. Though 'dent' is a bit of 'n' understatement."

The fleshling was _speaking to him._

Why, for the love of the Allspark, was it _speaking to him?_

"Whatever got you, got you good, man, let me tell you." Mike Romano paused long enough to meander behind the police cruiser and up to the workbench where all of his tools were located. "Found ya last night in Queens," he said over his shoulder at the driver's side. "Motorin' in circles blind. Ya really got to sayin' some weird shit, man."

Barricade continued to play the part of the unintelligent automobile. Agony throbbed through his nuerocircuitry, but his computer couldn't pinpoint exactly where it was coming from, creating the sensory illusion that his entire body ached. The muscle car kept his nonscrambled arrays firmly on the carbon-based life form despite, watching Romano as he picked through tools, organizing them. To Barricade, some of those things on the bench might as well have been primitive torture devices, especially when he got a good scan of the multiple saw blades hanging on the wall. _Interesting decorum._ The Decepticon's anxiety only keened after spotting the torches and grinders.

Picking up a small rubber sledgehammer, Mike tossed out the cigarette and sauntered back around, this time circumventing the bashed-in front end of the soundless Mustang. "Aw, c'mon. Ya ain't hidin' nothing by not talkin'. I'd like t'know what in hell ya got yu'sself into that screwed ya up this bad."

It was bad. There was no denying that fact. Barricade himself had trouble remembering what had caved in his passenger side so severely, and didn't recall what it was precisely that he'd struck after the initial impact that had crushed his grill and ram guard.

Oh, wait.

It was a garbage truck.

If it was possible, the Ford, for all intents and purposes, wilted at the realization that he'd fallen victim to being t-boned by a _garbage truck_. The second collision, as he began to remember, had been his front end connecting rather violently with a cement light pole, or something of similar construction, some time later. Not only had be been owned by a trash retrieval truck, but apparently he'd taken off after the wreck, lost consciousness at some point, and smashed grill first into a pole. Oh, the _embarrassment_. Romano peered again at the passenger side of the Ford Mustang sitting in his garage. It was trashed from front fender to rear, bowed in grotesquely from some severe, probably high-speed impact. He hadn't been able to get the panels to disconnect from the rest of the car in order to bang the monstrous dent out, but he blamed that on the Ford's presumed unique physiology. _Th' thing's bein' stubborn. Wonder if it's been wand'rin' N'York for long_, Mike Romano mused to himself as he lit another cigarette.

Personally, Danny Fowler thought his boss had lost his mind. There was a lot of weirdness to be seen in all parts of New York City, but happening on a car that drove itself was just beyond the mechanics ability to comprehend. Seeing Mike jabbering on to that cop cruiser wasn't helping matters any. Leaning over the engine block of the red Honda Del Sol, Fowler just stared at his boss, blonde head tilted ever so slightly to one side. Strange enough it was for the N.Y.P.D. to send over one of their wrecked cruisers to Greasemonkey's at all, but add the odd behavior on top and that made for one fruity cake on a Saturday morning.

"A'ight," Mike continued, still examining the damage thoughtfully. "Ain't gonna talk, I'll just work in silence 'til ya decide ta chat, eh?"

He'd work more on the chassis later. Dropping the sledgehammer back on the workbench, Michael Romano rounded the front of the Ford and took a good, hard look. The ram guard would need to come off and be replaced. The grill needed to be hammered back out. Who knew what sort of engine damage had been done; the radiator was probably trashed.

Well, never a better time, right?

Rough fingers dug beneath the lip of the jet-black hood, searching for the release latch. Barricade tensed, focused entirely on this insect and his hands. The last place he wanted those greasy little fingers was his engine compartment – where his spark was, buried beneath layers and layers of other essential circuitry and equipment. But this guy was a mechanic. He took engines apart for a living. Mike grunted and heard a satisfying _click_; a release in tension on the heavy metal covering was the reward for his efforts thus far. Turning his hands palm-up, he lifted the hood and peered in. For the two seconds Romano had the engine exposed, he was impressed with the amount of clean chrome he saw, but that blinking surprise was quickly overtaken by shock as the car below him made a sound akin to 'HUARG!' and the hood in his hands yanked free, violently slamming back down.

The entire garage had gone silent.

"Ya all right, boss?" Fowler ventured to ask.

"M'fine," Michael muttered, staring down at the police cruiser.

It was the first proof that he'd truly gotten aside from the night before that what he was dealing with was real. There was always that possibility that what he'd seen last night had been a product of an over consumption of Crown, but not now. _I'm totally sober, an' this car juss moved on its own._ His coworkers were still eyeballing him as if he'd grown two heads as Mike Romano scratched at the back of his cranium, thinking. _Now what?_ _I got me a talkin', self-movin' car. Now what the fuck do I do wit it?_

"Okay," Michael started unsurely to himself, biting his lower lip. "I'll start workin' on this a little later."

Someone else spoke up. "Ought'n we have it done for the N.Y.P.D. as soon as we can?"

"This thing ain't belongin' to any cop station, Manny," replied Romano. "Not this one. I dunno who he belongs to, but it ain't the fuzz."

_If only you knew, bonebag._

_

* * *

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The answer is simple.

We are a close-knit, friendly community of transfans who have all gathered together from different corners of the world, united by one single fandom: Transformers 2007/2009. We started back in 2007, August to be precise, and have continued to play to this day. After the 2009 movie came out, seeing as how the board itself had taken onto it's own continuity, we took elements and characters from RotF and added them, gaining Starscream, the Nemesis, all the hatchlings on it, and characters such as Sideswipe, Mudflap, Skids, Rampage, Grindor, and Jetfire.

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But!

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	2. Technical Difficulties

Part II

Technical Difficulties

By: Landray Depth Charge

The only thing that is ever certain in this life is the passage of time. Earth is not certain. Cybertron is not certain. Whether each human being that wakes up in the morning will survive to do so the next is not certain.

Barricade wasn't certain just how much time had passed, though it was, of course, the only true inevitable. He returned to awareness to a quiet garage; no drilling, no sawing, no air-compression devices at the works. Only a heavy, drowning silence served as his company. The Ford had succumbed to unconsciousness some hours ago after sitting in the garage all morning, listening to the deafening noise of the machines and the irritating accented squawking of the humans who ran them. All of the white noise in the background hadn't been helping the perpetual headache that Barricade had been suffering from, so he'd merely…slipped off and slept.

Or as close to sleeping as a robot could get.

Normally, the Decepticon was far more aware of himself and his surroundings during his version of sleep. Under ordinary circumstances Barricade's entire array of radar would have been at work, ready to alert him and reboot any slumbering systems at a moments notice if anything awry came up. These were far from typical times, however. The collision with the garbage truck had damaged far more internally than the thick-skinned warrior preferred to admit; namely, his internal repair and diagnostics programs. Those were knocked completely cold from the sheer force of impact, as well as directional telemetry and navigation. Everything else computer-wise had been cold cocked and rendered solidly bass ackwards. A slow chirp emanated from the Mustang as he rejoined the land of the living with a sense of partial completion – Barricade was as awake as he was going to get at that point.

Michael turned around, putting his back to the workbench. "Awake again, finally."

Barricade bit back a groan. _No figment. It's still here._

"How long ya gonna hide from me, eh? I've got you figgered out, man," Romano continued, leaning back against the bench.

_And I'll continue to allow you to believe so,_ the Mustang grumbled sourly to himself. His optic grid scanned over his surroundings again, getting a feel for what was different. The red Honda was gone. All of the other humans had presumably gone home. The place was relatively neat and tidy as opposed to workday at the shop in which if you found it on the floor, you could use it. Parts were where they needed to be, machines put to bed for the night, his engine and radiator were sitting on the work bench behind the human…

Barricade, in every practical sense, had a heart attack.

His _engine _was_ sitting on the work bench._

Oh, was it ever difficult for the police cruiser to keep his vocalizer off now. He all but vibrated with anger, resentment, and a feeling that was usually very foreign to the battle-hardened mech. At just past sixteen feet tall, Barricade was never considered one of the larger Decepticons in the ranks, but that never daunted him. He matched strength with Blackout, whom was twice his size, and in this earthen body he could out-accelerate nearly anything. Zero-to-sixty in just under three seconds was not the kind of power that was easily overlooked. Suffice it was to say that there was very little that discouraged or frightened Barricade, but there was no denying the sharp, unfamiliar pang of dread that shouldered its way into his circuitry at that moment. There was no quick getaway now. Add on to all of that the realization that his energy converter was in the mess of metal parts and wires on the wooden bench and the Mustang came to a swift and obvious conclusion:

In terran lingo: Barricade was screwed.

He had power, but not for long. Not without the converter. Drawing in a minor breath of air through his grill to cool off rapidly heating up wiring, the Ford finally let his true voice rasp out in the form of a single question: "What is it that you want?"

Michael Romano had never heard anything so terrifying and fixating before in his life. Neither purring engine nor boisterous roar had gotten the adrenaline to rush through his veins faster than the soft, malignant tones of the sleek Ford Mustang before him. Barricade was almost amused as the grease monkey seemed to grapple for a hand-hold, knees weak, as if after all that Romano had been saying he hadn't expected some sort of reaction. Now that he'd gotten it, the brown-headed insect seemed two seconds away from wetting himself.

"I, I knew it, man!" he cried, astounded. "I knew I wasn't just boozed up! Y-you talked, man!"

"Congratulations, fleshbag, you've found me out." The police cruiser sounded far less than giddy at the revelation. "Answer my question."

_Question. What question? Oh!_ "I don' want nothin', I swear it. I just wanted to know I wasn't crazy when I saw you driving around all wall-eyed 'n chatterin' about who knows what in Queens."

"Evidently not," the Decepticon hissed lowly, deliberately. "Do yourself a wise choice and put my engine back together so that we can both get on with our lives."

Romano ran his fingers through his hair out of nervous habit, still leaning against the workbench supporting the chrome bits and pieces that made up the majority of Barricade's engine block. Fan fragments, radiator, and several other pieces that Michael had never seen in a car before lay gutted and half-repaired on the flat surface. He'd ensured to take those apart very, very carefully. It was a miracle the Mustang hadn't just died on the spot from having his innards taken apart by someone who didn't know what they were doing.

"Ya oughtta see how ya look, dude," the New Yorker replied. "Not getting' nowhere fast without a new radiator at the very least."

Barricade was getting severely annoyed. "Put a new one in, then, fleshling!" he snarled portentously. The sooner he could get out of the damned garage and get back to laying low the better. He was not an advocate for hiding from his enemies, but being the last Decepticon on the face of a planet who hated him and his kind tended to rearrange even the toughest of mechs priorities.

The New York native was still floored, that much was obvious. It took him several seconds to come up with a decent response.

"It don' go dat, way, man!" Mike exclaimed defensively, holding both oiled-up hands in the air. A ratchet lay fisted in his right hand. "I-I gotta order a new one first, an' then it'd take maybe, yannow, three days to even git here."

Days. _Days._ Barricade knew that for all of the advancements his race had made, given his earth-spawned vehicle mode, he could not run without a radiator. Not unless he wanted the contents of his engine compartment to go 'poof' in a furious ball of blazing vengeance and flame. Killing himself via his own idiocy was not the way he planned to go out.

"And the radiator is gone. Completely."

"Oh yeah, check it out," Mike replied to the aggravated vehicle, quickly holding the crumpled metal piece up. "The coolin' core's all outta whack 'n shit, and I dunno how much you know about engines but you gotta have a workin' radiator in order for an internal combustion engine to work right. Otherwise it overheats 'n if you push it, it'll—"

"Explode. I know. These primitive systems you flesh wads have come up with are not that difficult to figure out," the Ford rumbled.

"R-Right. So you know what I'm talking about." Michael dropped the bent piece and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Your fan's trashed, but that's easy to replace. I gotta get ahold of a new bumper 'n rammin' bars, but I will say that ya got lucky, man."

_Lucky. Dare I even ask him what he considers __**lucky**__ about my position?_

Michael continued anyway, dauntless. "Whatever ya hit with your front end, which I'd take an educated guess and say it was either a tree or a post of some kind, the force of it sheared off your motor mounts." _Pause for effect 'n all._ "Know what those are?"

Begrudgingly, Barricade blipped.

"An' I'll take that as a 'no'." The human turned he ball cap on his head around so that the visor pointed backwards, gearing up for some educational words. "Motor mounts, or engine mounts, are the six or so bolts that hold the engine to your frame," Romano explained matter-of-factly. "Ya broke those bolts in th' impact 'n your real lucky that ya didn't wind up with your engine sittin' in the pass'ger seat."

The Mustang growled to himself. "Repairable?" he questioned dubiously.

"Well, for you, I'd sure 'ope so." Mike leaned back against the bench. "Any car here that don', yannow, talk 'n shit would be considered totaled after that point."

It seemed like a stupid thing to give up on a car for. Waste the thing on account of a few broken bolts. Barricade went silent, considering his options, which were regrettably few and none were favorable. There was no getting out of the garage without his engine, at the very least, put back in as it was and if he chose that mode of escape, he wouldn't get very far before the damage that his internal repairs couldn't catch up with would render him offline for good. The cruisers second choice was to stay there and let the human fix him, but at the risk of his life as well. All it took was a single hard jerk by an unknowing hand to a sensitive piece of machinery. Fighting Autobots was safe and simple: let the armor take the damage, Barricade's was a tough hide. But this was a foreign situation entirely. This involved his internals, usually fiercely guarded by thick armament, being wide open to prying eyes and twitchy fingers.

It was either die for certain, or have a high chance of death.

Some choice.


	3. Cutting Edge

Part III

Cutting Edge

By: Landray Depth Charge

Something jarred the mechanic out of his sleep. Mike grumbled and rolled over, glaring hazy daggers at his alarm clock. Massive electronic red letters stared back at him, as emotionless as a clock could ever be when all it did was display the time. It played no music, it had no pretty paintjob, it was an alarm clock, and according to its wise numbers, Michael still had two and a half hours to sleep. _Goddamned dogs, I swear I'mma brain 'em with a brick one a' these days…_

Slumber eluded the mechanic. After tossing and turning fitfully for forty minutes, Romano resentfully hauled himself from the warmth of his bed, tossed on a shirt and pants, and walked out into the early morning haze. New York was a busy city, jiving until all hours of the night and up at insane hours of the morn, so Mike found it remotely strange that the roads were fairly empty even so early. The road lamps were still lit brightly as the sky began to morph from the darkest of blues to a deep, rich purple, evidence of the oncoming summer sun from the east. With a tremendous yawn, the mechanic turned right and headed towards the sunrise.

For the most part, he kept to the little roads. Jogging through alleys, taking shortcuts that only a native would know, Romano tucked his head down and sleepily trotted along. He knew each turn without thinking about making them_. Left, right, keep going straight until you hit the light_, it was as automated as cruise control on a glossy new Escalade. Like the city itself, Michael Romano had his own unique rhythm, the drumbeat of his life that he and only he could hear and dance to.

But all great beats tended to be interrupted by the ever-irritating clash of the cymbols at the end.

Fate?

Nah.

Just a car.

The mechanic heard the hard rev of a high-powered engine a split second before a chorus of screeching tires went off right next to his head. Snapping to attention, Mike Romano staggered to a very ungraceful stop at the mouth of an intersection, but not before he slammed hands and knees first into a blur of black and white. Jerking back, he immediately opened his mouth to reward whoever the owner of the car was to a nice New York style verbal thrashing, but no sound ever came out of his throat. Readily, Romano shut his jaws once his groggy eyes sent the emergency message to his uncaffeinated brain: _O'hey. That's a cop._

The police cruiser took off before Romano could get a decent look at it, hauling tailpipe down the road with all the patience of a five year old on sugar pills. _Wonder what he's in such a hurry for._ If it weren't for the car's next move, Mike would have gone on his way and his life could have possibly turned out somewhat normal.

But something about a Ford Mustang police vehicle motoring headfirst into the hip of another jogger tends to make one look twice.

The only thing that spared the runner was the cop's slow speed and the fact that the ram guard on the grille had only grazed the man. There was never a shortage of the bizarre in New York City, but that seemed way over the top even for a place like that.

"Hey, you all right?" Romano called to his fellow townsman after the cop drove off.

The other nodded. "Yeah, fine, but what the shit was that about, eh? Goddamned cops in this town can get away wit anythin'!"

"Ain't it the truth, man. The car looked trashed, I'mma go check it out," Michael resolved. "Maybe dere's somethin' wrong with the pig."

The other man just grumbled and limped off. Oh, what an interesting beginning to an already odd day.

The sun was already up by the time the mechanic spotted the police cruiser again. This time the thing was in an abandoned lot, revving around in a tight left-hand circle, and in the light Romano got a real sharp look at the car. The ram guard was bent and flared outward, sitting on a bumper and front end that didn't look much better. Brown eyes trailed down the length of the Ford as it turned continuously, noting the bashed-in passenger side and ground off paint. _Holy spitballs, whad this guy get into?_

"'Ey! 'Ey officer! Ya a'ight?"

Romano jogged a little closer, then halted, standing beside a streetlamp. The cruiser was still motoring in haphazard circles, accelerating, then braking, taillights and headlamps blinking in tandem with the light strip on the roof. It was making the strangest noises the greasemonkey had ever heard come out of a car; electronic chirps and clicks, dings and bloops, blips of the siren firing at random intervals – it sounded somewhat similar to his computer the day he accidentally introduced tomato soup to the tower. _There is seriously something wrong with this dude._ Waving his hands, Romano worriedly eased forward, trying to see inside the passenger side window as it came around, but the tinting was too dark. With minor resolve the New Yorker rounded the tail end of the Mustang (which he recognized as a modified Saleen) and stood inside the circle the car was driving, still aiming to get a peek inside. No luck. As the driver's side came around with a burst of speed, Mike reached forward and rapped his knuckled on the glass.

The cruiser stopped. All noise ceased. All the human could hear was the soft, rumbling purr of the Saleen's v8 motor as it sat at idle in the lot.

Romano swallowed. This was way too weird for him to comprehend. "Officer?"

"…..TWO cent TAcos – _bbzzzzrt_ – PARTY IN THE BACK!"

…_What?_

Michael blinked and stared at the crunched police cruiser in shock. Where had that come from? The windows were still up, there was no way in hell the driver managed to project his voice through the glass at that volume, plus, it didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before. It had a slight metallic, nigh electronic ring to it. Romano gawked as the Mustang resumed driving loops around him yet again. The noise continued, but this time the voice sustained with it, much to Romano's astonishment. It seemed to be coming…_from_ the _car._

Impossible. Utterly insane. Michael Romano shook his head and lifted a hand, gingerly placing his fingertips on his temple. Too much whiskey the night before? _Maybe it ain't wore off yet. Maybe I'm still sleepin'._ Dream or not, the more the voice babbled about cheeseburgers and yogurt the more Michael Romano began to believe.

"'Ey," he ventured again, turning with the cruiser as it went around him yet again. "'Ey you! Cop! R-roll down ya window, man. Whatsa matta wit you?" The mechanic was going for resolve and strength, but with the way his voice squeaked on certain words, he didn't think he quite hit it.

The Ford revved his engine loudly and grumbled, headlights blinking rapidly. "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!" it spouted amidst a chorus of burrs and bleeps.

"Ya ain't makin' any sense, man. Come on, get wit it!"

With a deafening roar of the powerful engine the Mustang rocketed backwards, tires squealing on the pavement. Turning sharply, the car aimed its marred, destroyed front end towards Romano and ground gears as it violently jammed the stick from reverse to first. The accelerator went to the floor, and Michael found himself standing square between the headlights of a car that was shooting at him like a missile. With a yelp, the mechanic dove out of the way, stumbling, scrambling to right himself as the police cruiser took out several garbage cans on the side of the road. It stopped and continued to grouse angrily, lights blinking as it drove back around and started to come towards him again. Mike felt his back strike the metal pole that he'd been leaning on as he watched the Ford angle up for another try. Fear numbed his mind. _I'm 'onna die._

"Welcome to another episode of Johnny on the Spot!" the Ford chimed, almost cheerily if it was possible. "Broadcasting live from Davy Jones' locker. Kill the tomatoes!"

Revving, the Ford lifted off of the brake and stepped on the gas, but nothing happened. The engine roared, rotations per minute soaring into the six thousand range, but it wasn't going anywhere fast. Something clicked, something else cracked, and with a tremendous squeal the car shifted into drive and peeled out hard, engine gunning the Mustang into motion. Frozen, Mike just watched as the car accelerated towards him, eyes as round as saucers. He'd never get to see Rebecca again. He'd never get to hang out with Rob and the boys and go drinking again. He'd never get to watch another Yankee game at the bar. _No more hotdogs 'n flat beer. Just this._

Steam erupted mightily from beneath the crumpled black hood as the radiator overflowed and boiled. The Saleen swerved to the left and then tried to correct, fishtailing wildly, but to no avail. Michael Romano watched as the police cruiser jerked around and skidded sideways, tires squealing across the asphalt until its back end was facing him and no more forward motion was issued. Violently, its engine seized and died.

The silence had never sounded more deafening.

As it turned out, he'd be getting to watch the Yankees face off with the Boston Red Sox after all. Mike the mechanic survived that harrowing morning, as it were.

And here he was, talking to the very same car that tried to kill him.

* * *

"This thing need to get fixed? It don' look bad but it's hard t' tell when I dunno what it is 'n all."

Barricade continued to grouse unhappily. "What _thing?_"

"_This_ thing!" Michael hollered from beneath the hood, poking at the device buried in the engine compartment with a screwdriver.

"AUGH. NO. It's _fine_! And don't do that again!"

"Why?"

"How about I poke around the inside of _your_ chest cavity with a small, sharp metal object?"

"Point."

The process had been going that way since eight-thirty that night. Working on a car that felt everything that was being done to it was a brand new experience to Romano, and oftentimes he found himself at the receiving end of a verbal trouncing when he poked or prodded a little too hard. Not that he _really_ blamed the Mustang when explained like that. When put in humanoid terms, what he was doing to the sentient vehicle was akin to open-heart surgery.

That thought spawned another. "Hey," Michael chimed from beneath the battered hood. "Ya got anythin' like a heart? Or is, like, the motor your heart?"

"That is none of your business," returned Barricade snappishly. Questions like that tended to make him nervous given his current position.

"A'wright, a'wright, geez, sorry I asked," grumbled the mechanic unhappily. "Sorry."

For the most part, Barricade did his best to ignore the sensations that made him so uncomfortable. Millennia of pure paranoia were working against him quite fiercely at that point – there had been a time in his life in which even the most reputable Decepticon medic had to work his or her skids off just to get Barricade to let them in his chest at all. Trust was not an easy thing for the Mustang Saleen to give out. However, most would be surprised to find out that it was comparatively easy for him to gain the trust and even affections of others. It was part of his personality. It was part of the façade that Barricade lived in. It was the thrill that drove the Ford to devastate, but the boundaries of his destruction were not always outlined in the physical.

Barricade flinched, and flinched again. Romano thought it incredibly eerie to see the wires and innards of what appeared to be a fairly average automobile engine twitch and shrink away from his touch. Over the last three hours he had done his best to get used to it, but after having been a mechanic for fifteen years, it was not easy. It was a near certainty that from that day forward whenever Michael Romano reached in to fiddle with some trucks transmission, he'd half expect it to twitch beneath his fingers.

"So, ah, you got a name or somethin'?" the greasemonkey inquired, digging as gently as he could through masses of trinkets and metallic bits. Engine compartments were tight, and this Mustang was no exception.

Nerves wrought thin, Barricade sat in silence for a few seconds, going over his response. Humans were nosey little bastards, full to the brim with queries and quandaries. Why couldn't the fleshy just fix him and shut up? "Yes."

Mike waited through the pregnant pause that followed, and then pressed further, hinting. "My name's Mike."

"Barricade."

"Pleasure ta meet ya."

"I wish I could say the same."

Romano paused for a second, sighed, and continued searching. Thus far everything seemed to be in decent shape, other than the obvious chassis damage, the radiator, and the fan. The real challenge would be fixing the motor mounts; for that, he'd need to enlist he aid of his employees and the heavy lifting equipment in the shop. _Barricade_. It was an odd name for an odd machine. The mechanic straightened up and listened to the typical cricking and cracking of his spine as it returned to what was considered normal shape. The glaring clock on the wall, smudged with oil, read that it was already eleven-thirty. _Be lots a time tomorrow after work to keep goin' on this guy._

The Saleen's high volume tones cut through the tired humans thoughts. "Well?"

"Well, what?" Romano returned, pulling the grease stained gloves off of his hands. "Only so much I can do on so little sleep, yannow?"

The news didn't please Barricade in the slightest. "Guestimate for me, fleshling: how long will this take?"

Michael blamed his next words on exhaustion alone: "Yannow, yer awful ungrateful for bein' some smart-ass supercomputer. Shut up, relax, I ain't here putting all this effort into ya if I had it in mind to hurt ya. A'ight? So chill."

The Decepticon boiled silently. The human would be paying for that comment at a later date, but for now he let his logic systems override his emotional grid and stayed quiet. As much as Barricade loathed to admit it, he needed the squishy, carbon-based being. At least until his engine was reassembled and safely back in within the confines of his chest cavity where it belonged. For now, the cruisers needs were sated, what with the replacement of the ever-important energy converter some hours ago. After hearing the explanation of what role it served in Barricade's body, Michael Romano hadn't wasted any time in putting it back where it needed to go, and so for now, the half tank of gas that the muscle car sported could be accessed to keep him going. Fuel was fuel, but at times it needed to be processed first.

Mike wiped his hands on a rag and lit a cigarette, peering down into the bared compartment beneath a black, buckled hood. Crystal chrome shone through spots of dust and dirt, creating a pattern of dark and light that would catch anyone's eye. Just the thought of that much clean, shiny metal beneath the coat of grime that had set upon it with the boiling over of Barricade's radiator made Mike shiver. Chrome. It was a mechanics dream. An idea set the humans body into motion. Romano retrieved a bucket and set it in the slop sink across the dimly lit car garage, filling it with cold water before dumping it out and replacing it with warm water as an afterthought. A bit of car wash solvent was added, a sponge dumped in, and a stool dragged over next to the vehicle's damaged right fender. Barricade watched suspiciously, keeping a figurative eye on the fleshbags every move. What was he doing?

Sitting down, Romano took the sponge and began to excavate the grunge inlaid so heavily on the engine that he'd been working on. This had the Mustangs every sensor sharply attuned and aware; he'd never had his innards cleaned out in such a fashion before. He was confident that during tune-ups and other such medicinal procedures the medics made an effort to clean any gunk out of him that they found, but Barricade was not usually awake for that part. It was oddly…pleasant.

Mike was oblivious, of course. He listened to the patter of dirty water as it filtered down through the wires and bits of the Ford's partial engine on its way to the floor, where it puddled forlornly between Barricade's front tires. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more, rubbing off grease, muck, and dried-on antifreeze until the motor began to shine once again. It was a combination of things, really, that began to lull the Decepticon beast: the warmth, the water, it all felt so very nice.

Michael lifted his hands as the compartment shuddered and the engine seemed to sink a little with a tremendous, mechanized sigh. If it weren't for the fact that he was half crazy those days, Romano would have sworn that the thing relaxed at his touch. He hesitated only a few more moments before going back at it. The sponge touched this, the sponge passed over that, leaving behind clean chrome in its wake as the mechanic expertly wriggled it into little nooks and crannies that Barricade probably never knew he had. It took several seconds for Romano to detect the soft, rhythmic rumble emanating from somewhere amid the cruisers internals, so low that it nearly slipped his attention. The human could feel it more than he could hear it; the faint noise sent vibrations into the floor and through the slick metal frame of the car itself. As quickly as the sound began, though, it ended, leaving the vehicle still and silent once more.

Michael Romano was slightly worried at the encompassing quiet that ensued after the strange noise had ceased. Had he killed the Ford somehow? _Found On Road Dead, as they say,_ he thought, but any humor was pushed to the back of his mind as the possibility solidified itself and he distinctly felt like an ass. How dare he joke about it when it was a real risk that the Mustang Saleen could have up and flat-lined on him?

"Barricade?" he probed, voice reflecting the mild horror that he was beginning to feel. "'Ey, 'Cade, dude. C'mon now, say somethin'."

Silence.

_Aw, shit, ya gotta be kiddin' me._ "This ain't funny. I don' know vehicular CPR, man!"

That time, the police cruiser shifted in a minute fashion and grumbled drowsily. Michael blinked slowly in late-night bewilderment. Barricade wasn't dead at all. _I'll be damned_, he thought._ I put the guy to sleep._


	4. Revelation

Chapter IV

Revelation

By: Landray Depth Charge

Wake up.

Shower. Wardrobe.

Coffee.

Some semblance of breakfast.

A cheap bus ticket and off he went.

It was the same routine every single workday for Michael Romano. The only real changes to his scheduled mornings involved what he wanted for breakfast and if he wished to drive his piece of shit Honda to work or not. If he _really_ wanted to be daring, he could leave a bit early and walk the whole way. Considering New York traffic at seven thirty, though, he usually just paid for public transportation. Mike was lucky in one sense: his garage wasn't far enough away to warrant a long, early, and irritating subway ride across town.

A short bus or taxi ride landed him a block away from Greasemonkey's Garage. He'd named the place on a dare issued by his best friend, though Romano wouldn't admit that his decision had been heavily influenced by several cases of beer and the joy of a Yankee's win. That had been an interesting evening. The New York native stepped off of the bus clad in his usual dark gray jumpsuit, grease stained in testimony to his profession. The morning had gone as Tuesdays typically did, even if the coffee had been a little bit weak and the Cap'n Crunch a tad stale, nothing to sweat over. An extra mug of the watery java sat in Michael's right hand as his left dug around in dingy pockets in search of his keys. Once found, he let himself into the office and set the mug down on the surprisingly clean countertop, unlocking the door leading into the garage.

"Good morning, carbonmonkey."

Mike jumped and dropped the keys, nearly winding up with coffee dumped all over his front only seconds after picking the cup back up. It wasn't that being called names offended him. It wasn't that the voice that had addressed him was completely unnatural. It also wasn't that it was coming from a talking car. What scared the piss out of Michael Romano was a slightly unexpected voice coming from behind him in his locked garage when he knew no one was there.

He'd forgotten, if it was possible, about Barricade.

The memory of the unusual occurrences had been buried beneath the dim fog of early morning showers and typical daily routine.

"Don' do dat," he chastised lightly while retrieving the fallen key ring, tossing it on the long working bench that stretched across the entire back wall.

The sarcasm present in Barricade's initial greeting was coupled with a longsuffering tone. "I wonder how it is that your species survives when they are so vastly stupid as to forget about the _talking car_ they left in their garage not more than seven hours ago." The Ford paused in mock ponderment. "Oh, no wait. You breed like Tribbles. Of course."

"Oh, stuff it," Michael groused lowly, almost dangerously. It was far too early in the morning for such antagonization. "An' why can't you call me Mike?"

"That's easy: Because Mike sucks."

Romano lobbed a roll of duct tape at the police cruiser's chassis almost as an afterthought. Something caught his eye, however, causing him to turn towards the muscle car completely. A minor displacement had presented itself, but only a little one, so minute that the greasemonkey may not have noticed it had he not thrown the tape.

"The dent," he said in mild befuddlement, pointing at the passenger side. "It was definitely worse yesterday."

"Very observant, bonebag!" Barricade rumbled in false delight, opening his passenger door in a flippant 'congratulations!' motion. "Welcome to the world of regenerative systems."

"Of wha'?"

The Ford took on an exasperated pitch as the door slammed shut. "You fleshwads baffle me with your feeblemindedness. Let's break down your _English_ word, shall we? Regenerative, an adjective. Base word: 'regenerate'. And what does _regenerate_ mean, my protoplasmic friend?"

"Aw'right, that's enough." Michael Romano, forgetting his fear of the irritating vehicle before him, grabbed a phillips head screwdriver and pointed it at the crumpled but still shimmering black hood. "You listen here, and you listen good, a'ight? I ain't fixing you because I have to. All of 'dese repairs are comin' out of _my own_ pocket, nobody else's unless you're plannin' on payin' me for it. I'm staying late at the garage to work on you instead of goin' home to my beer and buddies. The least you could do is be a little more considerate, I mean, come on. I ain't got nothin' ta gain by sitting here until midnight every night working on your motor, and you bein' a bastard the whole time ain't givin' me a lotta motivation, yannow what I'm sayin'?" The human huffed slightly. "So I'd appreciate a little more respect."

_The fleshbag wants respect. Hah, ridiculous._

However, Barricade chose to humor the human and went silent, if not to satisfy the one who was supposed to be fixing him, but also because another of the irksome little pests ambled in. Silence enveloped the Mustang instantly, swallowing any retort he may have come up with as the blonde headed human shrugged off his coat and set his own mug of black liquid on the counter. _It must be their fuel in the morning._ He didn't know. All the Saleen S281 knew was that a large percentage of the humans drank it and that it was highly caffeinated, and he only knew the latter because of Frenzy. The last thought caused Barricade to twitch in irritation; thank goodness the yellow-haired human wasn't looking his way. He didn't understand it, but thinking of his former partner made him shudder, and a familiar feeling always bloomed within his internals at the reflection:

Anger.

The Mustang hadn't been able to locate his boombox partner after everything that went down in Mission City. He'd searched, and he'd called, and he'd tried so very hard to catch even the tiniest of blips on his radar scanners but nothing had ever come up. So he'd given up and left Hoover Dam in low spirits, and nobody could truly blame him. Barricade was the last Decepticon on the face of the planet. He was the single, sole enemy of a world of seven billion occupants, all with weapons that could hurt and kill him. That would humble even the toughest of mechs, and Barricade ranked up amongst the more resilient.

The Ford Mustang had come up with sneaky and creative ways of refueling as he meandered without purpose or direction. East he headed, occasionally deviating without meaning to but always correcting. The Decepticon hadn't known where it was that he was going, or where he hoped to end up, but driving long distances had always given the warrior time to think, unless Frenzy was making a ruckus in his cab; not uncommon. But this roadtrip involved just himself, his thoughts, and the heavy, drowning silence that enclosed him on the way. No movement. No claws digging into his leather seats. No mindless chattering about whatever it was that Frenzy had discovered on the Internet. After so many years of working with the neurotic little robot, the silence almost seemed frightening.

There were times that Barricade didn't even realize he'd passed into another state; any memory of South Dakota escaped him completely. Interstate 90 took him farther and farther east, into lower Minnesota where, in his detached state, the Ford had gotten slightly turned around. Finding himself going north on some obscure highway (that he later figured out was State Road 52), Barricade almost turned around, but fate decided to smirk upon him. He was nearly out of gas. _Hampton, Minnesota. Slagging tiny village had better have a gas station_, he'd thought.

Barricade had parked and waited. Nightfall was swift, and at midnight he made his move, plugging directly into the underground gas tanks via his own hoses and cables. He'd left, unsuspecting, with a full tank of fuel and in perfect health.

But it seemed that 240th street East and Hampton Boulevard had it out for him.

The Saleen had a green light. That he distinctly remembered. He only barely recalled noticing the truck an instant before it careened into his passenger side, and after that, everything was either fuzzy or completely dark. Barricade had left the intersection without pause, leaving behind several pieces of himself in his wake.

And then he woke up here.

…Where was _here_, anyway?

It was too late to ask the question that had suddenly decided to spawn. Only seconds later four more of the fleshies entered in a similar fashion, all bantering with one another as they prepared to open the shop for business.

"Still got that cruiser here, eh?" Fowler asked.

Romano snorted. "S' bein' difficult. Everythin's fixable, I'll just need your help wit' somethin' when I get to it."

"Oh 'eah? Wassat?"

"The motormounts are sheared."

Daniel Fowler arched his neck back. "It's totaled. Tell whoever owns the thing that their insurance ain't gonna cover it. Have it towed."

Barricade seethed. _Waste a car on a few bolts._

"Nah. We can fix it, dude. I'm doing it all myself as a favor to a friend," the head mechanic reasoned. "Just gonna need you an' Bugsy to stay a bit longer. Interested in overtime?"

The day went by without pause or fail. Having recharged all night long to give his power cells and systems a bit of down time, Barricade remained alert for the eight-hour workday, watching intently. Cars came in, stayed for anywhere between thirty minutes to four hours, and then they left. The more he watched the more he likened these human mechanics to medics – they saw to the issues of the vehicle, fixed the problem, and sent it back on its way. What Michael Romano did for a living wasn't altogether different from the care he might be given back home in response to an injury received; it was merely done in an unusual manner. Romano was too busy throughout the day's various concerns to bother with attempted conversation, and the Mustang Saleen was thankful for that. The only prompt that would get him to speak in the middle of the bustling garage was a direct threat to his life.

But, as the day before, after almost precisely eight hours of work, the shop ushered out its last customers and closed. Unexpectedly, however, the two humans that Romano had wanted to enlist aid from went home when the workday ended, instead of staying.

This irked the Mustang.

"Why?" Barricade asked, irritated.

Mike shrugged slowly. "They both had plans for tonight that involved women. They're gonna help me with the motormounts tomorrow instead."

"Pfeh. They'd rather fraternize with your females than make time and a half?"

"Oh, believe me, buddy," Mike said in return, a little blissful smile on his face. "It ain't just fraternizing." The smile disappeared with a more serious look. "What do you know about time 'n a half?"

Barricade sounded insulted. "I _can_ read, human. I have access to satellite Internet at all times. If something puzzles me, I look it up."

"Do ya? How fast?"

"I put T1 to shame."

An appreciative whistle escaped the mechanic's lips. He didn't exactly know what 'T1' was, but it had to be better than the dialup Internet he sported back at his apartment. _Then again, this is some sort of super advanced talking car …thing. I think._

"'Ey."

Oh no. Barricade didn't care for the tone. It was…inquisitive.

Michael reached up and turned his hat backwards, standing in front of the smashed grill. "What _are_ you, anyway?"

The silence that encompassed the garage was deafening and heavy. Romano immediately got the impression that he'd queried on the wrong subject, stepping back as the tone, the very scent to the air changed, almost so miniscule that he didn't catch it. The foreboding quiet drowned out even the busy bustling of rush hour traffic outside of the shop, and Mike began to consider taking back his question.

"I am," Barricade began, carefully but frantically picking through his words. "A Ford Mustang Saleen S281 Extreme." Smartassery had gotten him out of situations with dumber species before.

The flood of information that rushed to the forefront of Mike's brain was almost instinctual. He went over what he knew of the specific model that the Ford had mentioned: _4.6 litre V-8 engine. 550 horsepower. Leather seats. Mmmm._ "Well, I can see 'dat," Romano replied. "But, are you some sort of weirdass gov'nment experiment on the lamb or somethin'?"

There was a rumble of disapproval. "No. Not exactly." _How much can I risk telling him?_ "How much do you know about aliens, Michael Romano?"

"Aliens?" Mike scoffed, wiping grime off of his brow. "What, like _Mars Attacks_? Or Canadians?"

_Canadians?_ "More like the former."

He shrugged slowly and peered at the disassembled pieces that lay gutted on the workbench. Michael's project for the night. "I ain't never seen one, but that don' mean they aren't there. Universe seems awful big for us ta be da only ones here."

Barricade was smirking. He had no face in this form, and yet, Romano was certain he could hear it in his metallic tones. "Smart human. You're right: I don't come from Earth at all."

The mechanic sputtered somewhat and dropped the octagonal piece that he'd been fiddling with. It amused Barricade, truly, the look of utter shock that adorned the fleshwad's face at learning that he was dealing with an extraterrestrial. _Repairing_ an alien life form.

"Holy shit," Mike muttered, turning around to face the sleek bi-colored form. "You're a fucking _Martian?_"

_Stupid human._ "No," the Mustang huffed. "I choose not to divulge where it is that I come from. Not all aliens fit your species' description of little green men from Mars. Obviously."

This was beyond Michael. He could deal with talking cars and government experiments, but _aliens?_ A million possibilities ran through his mind – he needed to call someone. People needed to _know!_ This, quite possibly, could rank up as one of the most important discoveries in the history of mankind, and here it was, sitting, unable to go anywhere, in his garage. _Holy mother of Jesus this is amazin'. Call the press, call the papers, hell, I'll even call my Ma. This is huge!_

Barricade sat in silence; optic and sensory array studying the biological life form that was currently on the verge of a conniption fit by the bench. Something about the greasemonkey was making the Mustang uneasy, something about his reaction. Barricade examined the readings his sensors were receiving; heightened heart rate and blood pressure, faster aspiration rate, increased adrenaline output. The only conclusion that the Decepticon could come up with was that Michael was either scared out of his mind, or _excited._

"What is it that you humans say, the phrase about cats and tongues?" he ventured to say, almost nervously trying to lighten the mood. Humans, he realized, were greedy, blabberfaced little pests. To the mechanic, having an alien in his garage was probably a big thing. "You're silent."

"This-this is massive, man!" Mike cried, throwing his arms in the air. Barricade went quiet to listen as the humanoid walked a tight circle before his steadily straightening front bumper. "This proves all of them hippy bozos right. Dude! Jesus! You ever heard of Area 51? I can blow that whole story wide open'n shit and – oh man, they'd pay me for this kind of stuff!"

The words that fell out of Barricade's vocalizer went without pause or thought – automatic response to the explosion of red-hot rage that lit up inside of him.

"You want to make _revenue_ off of this?" the Ford cried, his normally deep, harsh voice shrill with the utter repugnance that he felt. No. Not repugnance. The only word that could describe how Barricade felt was this: _hatred._ "You want to make _money_ off of the fact that I'm disabled and presumably at your _mercy?_ As you humans say: _Fuck you!_"

What happened next, Michael Romano wasn't sure. The police cruiser suddenly shifted in a manner that cars were not supposed to be capable of; the doors flung wide open and began to change and split, as the grill and front end mashed together violently. The damaged ram guard started to reallocate as the Ford Mustang arched grotesquely, as if in throes, cracks and seams appearing out of nowhere along the sides of the glossy obsidian form. Something split away and converged upon itself along the driver's side door, and with horror, Romano realized that it was a monstrous hand, its clawed fingers digging into the concrete flooring. As fast as the display began, though, it ended, and Barricade snarled as his body refused to complete the conversion that was as natural to him as breathing was to the flabbergasted human before him. With a sickening crack, the Mustang reformed as it had been.

The garage was eerily silent aside from the occasional spark flying brightly from protesting and inflamed metallic pieces. Mike, having nearly climbed the wooden platform in fright, slowly eased back down onto two feet, mouth agape beneath wide eyes that stared unblinkingly at the cruiser. Barricade fumed, shivering with the anger that threatened to drive him mad.

"Michael Romano, if you say a single word about what I am to anyone – and I mean _anyone_ – I will see to it that you do not live to see that first check. Do you understand?"

Swallowing, the human nodded.

Barricade pressed further. "_Anyone_, fleshbag, and don't you dare think I won't know. Keep it to your_self_, fix me, let me on my way and never speak a word." A dangerous, hissing growl accompanied the next statement. "I will know, even after I leave. I will know, and I will come after you. There is not a corner of this disgusting rock in which you could successfully hide from me, fleshling; I will _find you_." The snarl increased in volume, reverberating around the machine shop. "And I will _dispatch_ you in the worst way you _can't_ imagine."

Adrenaline rushed through Michael's veins. "I-I get it. I won' tell nobody. I swear."

"_Good._"

Romano popped another cigarette in his mouth and lit it hastily, going back to the parts on the workbench in silence.


	5. Apologies

Chapter V

Apologies

By: Landray Depth Charge

Mike had never felt so suffocated in the silence of his own garage.

He threw a nervous glance in the general direction of the silent, ominous form of the police cruiser as it sat, wordless, just behind him. Romano had been working furiously on the disassembled components strewn about on the workbench for over four hours, stopping only once for a bathroom break. It helped to keep him occupied and unthinking. It kept his mind off of what had occurred between him and the intelligent vehicle just after five 'o' clock that afternoon. Barricade had gone silent after his outburst, and by God, that utter stillness was driving the mechanic batty. The longer the Mustang Saleen sat there without even a twitch the more nervous and threatened Michael Romano felt – it felt distinctly like a child being stared at by one of his toys from across the room. Still and inanimate, and yet it held a sinister air.

Finally, he couldn't take the quiet any more, and stood up. With practiced ease he swiftly stowed the tools he was using in their rightful place inside their respective drawers, turning to lean against the aged, chipped wood of the bench. The New York native thought over what he wanted to say as his dark brown eyes roved over the scuffed, dented, and filthy chassis of the beat-up muscle car facing the back wall. Gathering up his courage, Michael Romano walked along the driver's side from taillight to hood, and stood within easy reaching distance of the dust-coated front left fender.

"Allright," he started reluctantly, pausing to muse over his words. "I been thinkin' 'bout what I was sayin' earlier, 'n I think I know what set ya off. I mean, I wouldn't really want some alien government getting ahold of me neither. You're hiding, right? Hidin' from us?"

Barricade pondered over his answer for a moment, his anger having burnt down into a smoldering, aching disgust that throbbed in tandem with the beat of his spark. "Yes," he replied truthfully. "If I don't, I get killed."

"Right! So, basic survival instinct 'n all. That's why you got upset." Michael took his customary oil-stained ballcap off. "Right?"

"I hope you're not trying to sound smart by stating the blatantly obvious," droned the Ford, clearly unimpressed.

The mechanic squirmed slightly, scratching at the back of his head. It was an awkward situation. "I just wanted to say that, yannow, I'm sorry. It's big news, having an alien in your garage, you know? I panicked 'n started to say shit that I wasn't thinking about 'n all. I ain't gonna turn ya in to nobody, I promise. Scout's honor and all that shit."

Though the mechanic couldn't see it, every single sensor array that Barricade had within his systems was trained upon him. Measuring his vitals and chemical reactions, suspiciously monitoring heart beat and aspiration as visual and auditory feedback continued constantly. His imagery array went through each spectrum, feeding information back to the living vehicle's highly capable core processor, and it was within the depths of Barricade's brain that he searched for it. Each tiny piece of data he received on Michael was carefully examined and scrutinized, looking for a lie that did not present itself. All within the short span of a few seconds. The fleshwad seemed honest enough, according to his scans.

Hesitant was his reply. "…Very well."

Relief, it was a beautiful thing! Romano felt the tension bleed out of him at the Saleen's acceptance, reluctant even as it was. At least he no longer felt imminent death sneaking up behind him anymore. Risking a glance at the clock, Mike figured he'd work more comfortably for another two hours and then hitch a taxi home for the night.

* * *

Authors notes: _Yes, dear readers, I know this chapter is regrettably short! Tis but a teaser to keep you occupied while I work on the longer and more important sixth chapter. Do not lose faith in me! More is coming soon, life pending, of course._


	6. Cracks

Chapter VI

Cracks

By: Landray Depth Charge

Barricade did not enjoy being eight feet off of the ground. It was unnatural. It was revealing. It was…_humiliating._ "Do you really have to do this?"

Romano was standing beneath the Mustang as the vehicle sat powerless on a metal car hoist. "Well, yeah. I did a little reading and I realized that there was an easier way to replace your motor mounts." Mike glanced over at the bolts sitting on the workbench. "I think I can do it from underneath instead of lifting out the entire engine."

That thought did little to comfort the Saleen, so he went silent.

The Ford Mustang sat in quietude, keenly receptive to every little poke and prod Mike made to his undercarriage. Barricade did not care to be so exposed; there were systems and wiring down there that would be easily accessed if the human ever got it into his head to start removing panels, and there would be absolutely nothing the Decepticon could do about it. His transformation sequence was bugged. His tires were almost ten feet off of the ground. He had no mobility, and no way to retaliate if the fleshbag got curious.

As a military shock trooper, this sort of vulnerability would usually spell out a gruesome death for Barricade. The Saleen S281 had spent millennia fighting battle after battle, killing thousands of his opponents, and never once had he felt so defenseless. This entire disaster with the garbage truck and finally with this Michael Romano had forced the Decepticon officer to rethink his own strengths and weaknesses. Since waking up in Greasemonkey's Garage, he'd spent hours silent amidst the busy, jarring din of the shop just thinking about the accident. What could he have done to avoid it? The more Barricade reflected on it the less he could come up with. His side of the light was green, and according to the human's traffic laws, that meant he had the right of way and the garbage truck should have stopped. But it didn't.

The Mustang hadn't even seen it before the armor-crushing impact, so evasive maneuvers were moot. _There wasn't anything I could have done._ It seemed like a logical conclusion, and most sentient beings would have accepted it like that. But Barricade just kept thinking.

It wasn't like he had anything else to do, anyway.

Michael poked at something. The Ford flinched. "Stop that," he snarled hoarsely, giving a threatening rattle of his inner workings.

"'Ey, c'mon. The sooner I get you fixed, the sooner you can leave. Unless I hurt ya, just try 'n endure it, okay?"

_Endure it._ He'd been _enduring _it for three days and nights so far with nothing more than snide remarks and grating comments. The Ford Mustang Saleen figured he had a right to bitch and complain a little; he was stuck in a garage in which he had nothing to do all day, got poked and prodded at for a few hours at night, and then was left in deathly silence with absolutely nothing to amuse himself with until morning. Repeat process. The Internet had relieved some of his boredom, but there was only so much research and reading could do for an exceedingly interactive and highly intelligent mind. In other words, Barricade was _bored_.

Mike had gotten down to business beneath him. He could feel those greasy little fingers touching this, grasping that, pulling on this component and poking at that. Tools were used, parts replaced with a sound amount of effort from the mechanic – apparently it was a difficult task given the amount of curses and grunts Romano was emitting. The Saleen twitched and cringed uncontrollably at some points out of reflex, but he stayed silent as his temporary human helper asked him to. Barricade had to give the carbonmonkey credit; he stayed and finished working the night before even after their little "falling out". Mike even came back the next day with almost the same stupid grin as before. The human was braver and full of more character than most Decepticons he'd known throughout his long, drawn out lifetime.

…No.

Barricade shook his metaphorical head. Absolutely not. Surely he was not beginning to feel…_respect_ for this repulsive fleshbag? No, of course not! Humans were inferior in mind and body. They leaked random odd fluids and produced viscous substances and mucous and they were fragile and stupid and sensitive and – he was _relying_ on one. A Decepticon shock trooper; the pilot and chief science officer of the _Nemesis_; Barricade was slagging relying on this substandard carbon-based life form to get repaired and back out onto the road. It was horrid! It was degrading! It was downright _wrong!_

Not only was he respecting this secondary being, he was beginning to listen to commands. _Slaggit._ He was no trained puppy. Mike couldn't tell him to be quiet and expect him to listen, and yet, he did, and Barricade complied. The police cruiser chalked it up to his ever increasing boredom and his aching desire to get _out_ of the slagging car shop and back to freedom. Open roads. Highways. If a mechanoid could dream, surely Barricade would entertain images of a long, straight road with nobody else on it while he slept. He deduced that getting back to those freeways and avenues was his only motivation to comply with the mechanics demands. _Perfectly logical._ But it was still undignified.

The Ford wasn't one to just talk to a lesser creature, but human logic managed to evade him still on a few certain points. One in particular. "Human?"

"My name's _Mike_," grumbled the greasemonkey from beneath Barricade's undercarriage. He tossed down another sheared bolt, listening to it ping against the cement flooring. "What's up?"

"Why does your twisted fleshy logic dictate that they are called 'parkways' and 'driveways'? One parks in a driveway and drives on a parkway. It's stupid."

The sheer ridiculousness of the question threw Michael entirely off kilter. He started laughing. Leaning his shoulder against the Saleen's tire for support, the mechanic had himself a good long chuckle over what appeared to be an honest question from his 'patient'. Barricade was confused, and a little annoyed. What had been funny about it?

"What?" the Decepticon probed irately. "There was nothing humorous about my query."

Mike was still doubled over, laughing like an idiot. "Naw, man," he managed, slowly recovering. "It just came outta left field, is all." He finally was able to straighten up, and with the back of his hand, he wiped the tears from his eyes. "An' I don't really know. Seems stupid, now that I think about it. The gov'ment for ya."

Barricade verbally rolled his optics. "You blame it on your government. I blame it on your species as a whole."

"Ouch. One for d' alien, zero for d' human."

Despite not having been wholly satisfied with the answer, the Ford Mustang let it go after that. Romano didn't know anyway. "How much longer, do you think?"

"I can probably finish up the motormounts tonight and tomorrow I can yank the engine back forward again," Mike replied, delving his hands back into the tight spaces again to get at another bolt. "And I think the radiator'll come in tomorrow, so I can put that in."

_About time._ "Don't bother with the engine. My internal healing processes will push it back into place."

"Well, dat's good. One less thing I gotta do."

The mechanic leaned back and glanced at the passenger side of the car. It never ceased to befuddle and amaze him that every day he came into the shop, the massive concaved dent was less dished then it had been the day before. Cars just didn't _heal_ themselves.

This one did.

His coworkers just assumed that he was hammering it out himself after work every night. Romano skirted questions as often as he could, especially regarding the weird marks in the cement floor that had shown up one day. Mike wrote it off as an equipment fuck up and left it at that. He knew his employees were wondering about it, but he refused to act any differently than he had before the cop car had nearly creamed another New Yorker in the early morning mist some four days ago. Every day, he was still just Mike Romano, automobile mechanic, and their boss.

The New York native had been thinking over his conversation with the alien life form, and it had quickly dawned on him that telling people that he had the mechanical version of E.T. sitting in his car shop would probably be the quickest way to land in a mental ward. Barricade did not want to be discovered, and Michael didn't exactly want to get locked up in an asylum. It just made sense to let this one slide, to let it go unsaid, and get on with his life.

"'Ey, 'Cade?"

It would always be weird having a voice coming from _beneath_ him. "What?"

Mike didn't stop working as he asked in a whimsical tone, "What're the odds of you, yannow, ever comin' back to N'York after y' leave?"

"Why is it that you ask?" Barricade returned suspiciously. The question had caught him offguard.

Romano shrugged. "I dunno. Might be kinda neat to see ya again here in a few months or years just to see how you're getting' along. I mean, if ya ever need an oil change or transmission flush, ya know where t' find me."

Barricade went silent. The fleshbag was showing him kindness, even after the countless rude comments and threats he'd issued. He was not used to his behavior. The Saleen had relentlessly researched and studied human psychology as a point of interest given his preferred profession, so he would have thought the mechanic might have become resentful and afraid after his outburst. The fear had been present, but only until Michael apologized and Barricade accepted. After that, the bonebag had relaxed phenomenally and had returned to a state of near-normalcy. Credit was due yet again: apparently, the New Yorker wasn't afraid of much, and had nerves of steel to boot.

The Ford's response was tentative. "Perhaps. I will consider it."

That was good enough for Mike. Taking a second look at everything, he tallied up and mentally organized what he had done and what still needed tending to. Two more bolts to go and he'd be done with that, and presumably Barricade's body would take care of the engine position. Really, the motor hadn't moved that much, maybe an inch or so, but it was just enough to destroy the mounts upon which it sat. The bent pieces would heal and shift the eight-cylinder engine back into place, according to what the alien told him.

That was strange: Barricade's image had shifted within the human's mind. Romano dug a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. The sleek Ford Mustang Saleen had gone from some sort of human-built talking car -- artificial intelligence -- to being an alien. Mike stopped thinking of him as a _car_ and started to mentally refer to him as an _alien._ A living, breathing, thinking being with an obvious conscious sense of self, capable of rational thought and logic. There was and would always be something undeniably frightening about dealing with a creature that was obviously far more advanced in technology than the humans were. Mike just shook his head and constantly reminded himself that Barricade was a person, a he, not an it, not a thing, and he had feelings and thoughts and dreams all of his own. Romano, out of psychological self defense to this onslaught of newness, associated him with being almost human.

It kept him from being completely terrified out of his mind.

Both of the mounts were done. The New York native wiped the sweat off of his brow and sighed. _Finally._ Ducking, Romano lurked out from underneath the car hoist and with a push of a button, the Ford found himself being eased back to the ground. Relief swept over him like a breeze as soon as he felt the dense rubber of his tires touch the smooth, cool concrete. His passenger side chose to ding out another small area of the dent just then, crackling slowly, ending with a loud 'pop' accompanied by a grunt from the Saleen. Mike winced a little.

"Idn't that painful?" he asked of the police cruiser.

"Compared to other agonies I've experienced in the past, no, not really." Barricade thought about it some, and then elaborated without having to be asked. "It would be like you getting a bruise and someone poking it. More inconvenient than anything."

The human was satisfied with his answer. The police interceptor watched the man as Michael began to clean up the place a bit, probably in preparation for departure for the night. Barricade groaned at the thought of another mind numbingly boring night alone. He hadn't entirely meant for the sound to be auditory, so it surprised him when Romano turned around to look at him curiously.

The human asked, "You a'ight?"

To which the mechanoid replied with, "Yes."

"Forgive me," Mike said dubiously. "If I don' entirely believe ya."

Barricade heaved air out of his grill and growled. No, he was not okay. When it came down to it, despite how much he covered it up, he was angry, sore, bored, irritated, and in constant pain. Add on the fact that he was being continuously subjected to these little human indecencies to rub salt into his already open and festering wounds.

The truth started coming. "No, I am not 'all right'," he snarled, voice strained with the stress of recent happenings. "I have not been, and won't be. This is a sick and twisted situation that is nothing less than demeaning, and I hate it. My leader is gone, my purpose is no longer existent, and my cause has disintegrated in all the time that it takes for you to take a slagging shower. Past achievements? Hah! For nothing. My life is completely without purpose or merit and so I wander heedless and unaccompanied, trapped on this shit eating dust ball as the last of my kind on the face of the planet, being hunted and followed by others who want me dead. No, Michael James Romano, I am not _all right!_"

Barricade stopped himself and shuddered, visibly hunkering down on his tires. There was no point in trying to explain himself to this human; he, in all likelihood, knew absolutely nothing about what he was talking about and the look on Romano's face proved it. Mike was surprised, shocked even, at the amount of emotion he'd just seen coming from the otherwise stoic and cold Ford Mustang. Apparently the car had far bigger problems then just his physical need for repair. A million questions flew to the forefront of the mechanic's mind, but Mike instinctually refused to ask them, as he had a feeling that somehow, in this situation, the less he knew about Barricade, the better. It was still hard, though, to see a being that he associated with being human to suffer as the vehicle was.

_Just don' ask._

Michael turned his hat around, brim backwards, while he thought about it. Slowly, he levered himself down to the ground, sitting cross-legged near the Saleen Mustangs driver side fender. It was sort of like getting down to where he perceived Barricade's level was, rather than looming overtop of him.

"Us dumb fleshbags, we got a sayin', see," the dark-haired man said softly, leaning his shoulder against the slick black metal. "It goes like 'dis: 'This too shall pass'. An' it will. I've learned that when ya hit rock bottom, man, the only place left to go…is up."

Barricade was silent. Human reason was skewed and distorted; it confused him and oftentimes made little true sense to his mechanical brain. But that statement had been so wonderfully simple that it had taken the Ford several seconds just to process the straightforwardness of it. _This too shall pass_. The Decepticon had never heard of such a thing, and yet the logic behind it seemed glaringly obvious. Such optimistic views were not common among the Decepticon ranks, and yet, the shock trooper found himself mulling over the phrase, turning it over in his mind, reading it again and again. It was so uncomplicated. It made sense. And it was true. _Once you cannot go lower, you can only go up. _

Barricade knew that he couldn't get much lower without being dead.

The silence encompassing the pair was almost deafening, but in a non-threatening sort of manner. Michael remained where he was, leaning his miniscule weight against the cold ebony fender, offering silent support as the black and white cruiser thought it over. Fifteen minutes of quiet slid by, and finally the mechanic stood up, placing the palm of his hand on the slowly reforming hood to steady himself.

"I hope that made sense to your super-smart brain," Mike chuckled, patting the expanse of black metal beneath his hand. "But I'm gonna turn in. See you in the mornin'."

Barricade made a disgruntled noise.

Romano paused. "What?"

"You obviously have no idea how astoundingly boring it is to sit here all night staring at a brick wall."

"You try counting bricks?"

"I counted them all. And then double checked. And then I did the math and determined approximately how many bricks are in this entire building, and double checked that."

Micheal looked impressed. "Yeah? How many?"

"Approximately twenty-thousand, two hundred, forty-eight bricks," replied the slick Mustang matter-of-factly. "Give or take a hundred or so. Point is, I get bored witless down here, so try and get me back on the road as fast as possible. I'm losing memory space by the gigabyte."

The New Yorker frowned and looked around. There wasn't even a television he could turn on for the guy. He didn't bother bringing up and turning on the radio, given that Barricade had a good sound system and satellite radio as it was; he probably wasn't interested in listening to music all night long. What else was there?

Romano got an idea. "Hey, I'll be right back."

Puzzled, the Decepticon watched as the greasemonkey took off and jogged out of the shop. _Bizarre creatures_, he thought. He turned inward once more, lighting up his computer console to surf the Internet. Navigating the humans information highway was hard on account of the sheer volume of raw information to be sifted through and processed. When Barricade had nothing specific he was looking for, he found the Internet to be confusing and difficult to use. Frenzy had caught on quickly to the patterns and ways, but such intricate details had always managed to escape the Ford's –

He snarled, managing to get a weak rev out of his partially disassembled engine. Frenzy was dead. _Stop thinking about him._

Utter unbridled habit was terribly hard to break. Barricade had worked with the hyperactive little mech for years even before they had been sent as a team to Earth, so when he'd been partnered with Frenzy via Starscream aboard the _Nemesis_, it hadn't been that complex to adjust to Frenzy's constant presence. Not every mechanoid in existence had the ability to completely support the life of a smaller robot, though, so the problem that Barricade encountered after his partner's death was his and his alone to suffer. There were certain programs and systems that existed within his body that were meant only to maintain the life of a smaller Cybertronian. He even had his own special compartment inside his chest in which Frenzy had gone during his erratic stasis cycles. The data uplink that his partner had connected to in order to receive energy and information felt empty and neglected, and even so many weeks later, it subconsciously searched for Frenzy despite Barricade's knowing he was dead.

He hated it. He wanted nothing more than to find that slagging uplink port and rip it out.

It's constant yearning for the partner it no longer had made him feel more alone than he wanted to admit.

Romano chose that moment to burst back into the room, sporting a look that gave the Decepticon the impression that he'd just cured cancer in his spare time. "I got an idea for ya," the mechanic said, plopping himself back down near the fender he'd sat by before. "I call it 'How Fast Can Barricade Find It'."

"Uh huh," rumbled the mechanoid doubtfully, eyeing the paperback book Mike held in his hands. "And what's that?"

Mike grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You said you have fast Internet, so I got a challenge for you. I say somethin', and you find it on the 'Net as fast as ya can 'n tell me about it. Like, if I said somethin' like 'Abe Lincoln', you just gimme a bit of info on him."

A game. This human wanted to play a game with him. As if he had anything else to do. "Fine."

"A'wright, first one: Mike Mussina."

Now he had a target. Barricade sat in silence for only a meager few seconds before he had his results.

"Michael Cole Mussina, born in 1968 in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Six feet, two inches tall, weighing one hundred sixty pounds. Pitcher for the New York Yankees. Bats left handed, pitches right handed," Barricade rattled off without hesitation.

Romano blinked. "That was fast. Okay, next one's harder." He took a second to think of something more obscure. "Queen Elizabeth."

A click, a whirr, and then: "Queen Elizabeth the first; born September seventh, 1533, died March twenty-fourth, 1603. Also known as 'The Virgin Queen', and the 'Good Queen Bess' – though no one really knows if she was actually a virgin or not."

_Dis guy's good._ Michael Romano smirked as he got another idea, and leaned forward, sure this one would stump the sentient vehicle. "Bubba Dean."

Barricade thought. The Internet held nothing in particular so he switched over within a second to his access to police databases and started there. Four seconds later, he replied adequately with, "Robert 'Bubba' Jonathan Dean, born July fourteenth, 1971 in Biloxi, Mississippi. He lives in a swamp, has a police record for car theft when he was sixteen years old, four kids, and an estranged wife who he has a restraining order against on account of the fact that she tries to kill him." The mechanic could hear Barricade's smirk. "I could continue."

Mike was floored. Nobody knew that but him and a few select friends. Nobody. "Cheese whiz, son," he laughed incredulously, ruffling his hair and getting it out of his face. "Yeah, that'd be Bubba."

"Interesting choice in friends you have," Barricade remarked sarcastically.

"'Ey, who said the guy was my friend?"

The police interceptor flickered his headlights. "Police have records stating you were arrested on the same night as the Bubba fleshbag, in the same city, with the same charge. Call it machine's intuition."

Romano elbowed the fender he was sitting against good naturedly. "Allright, fine, you caught me. Next one…"

As the game continued well into the early morning, the Decepticon remained fairly deep within his musings. His mind was capable of multitasking on a level unheard of by human beings – all at once, he was listening to the target words, searching them, then giving the information he found while doing self-diagnostic checks, a system defragmentation, system bug checks, and antiviral work. Michael Romano was being kind to him. Why? What motivation could the fleshwad possibly have to stay up all night playing Internet trivia games with a cold, harsh, and mean mechanical extraterrestrial? Worse yet, why was _he_, Barricade, enjoying such company?

But he didn't complain. The Ford Mustang Saleen came up with the answers to the trivia key words almost instantaneously every time, going over a cornucopia of subjects varying from banana trees to Babe Ruth to different types of mold. As a sort of final hurrah, Barricade ensured to look at Wikipedia first for his answers. It had been Frenzy's favorite website for useless Earth knowledge.

* * *

_Worth the wait? Please review and let me know!  
_


	7. Of Mice and Men

Chapter VII

Of Mice and Men

By: Landray Depth Charge (aka Feesh)

"And, there. Full up, man."

Four days. Barricade had spent four slagging days holed up in the same garage, staring at the same stinking brick wall, and finally he was starting to see some _real_ progress. The bowed in dent in his passenger side was getting better every day, though he knew it would take another week to completely repair itself along with the impact damage done to his front end. Barricade's engine block was still slightly off center and therefore uncomfortable, but that sort of thing would straighten out with time.

What his body couldn't repair with any efficiency was his radiator; the piece of equipment had been crumpled entirely upon impact with the pole, or tree, or – no, it had been a pole after all. The Saleen winced internally. Falling asleep while driving was even more dangerous when the driver was also the car.

But now, some four sunrises later, several of his internal components had been tinkered with and put back, hoses replaced where Mike saw wear and tear, motormounts fixed, steering and brake fluid replenished. Barricade had remained quietly impatient, irritated at all of these little things being done when all he _really_ needed was a radiator. It wasn't until he'd woken up from recharge on Thursday morning, the fourth day, and realized how much better he felt with all of the routine maintenance Romano had been doing. Something as simple as a transmission flush had relieved a certain pressure inside his engine that the Ford Mustang hadn't been able to discern himself, not that it had presented a problem and therefore had not required his immediate attention.

Michael stepped back, tossing the now empty antifreeze container into the trash, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "So?" he goaded, turning his hat backwards. "How's it feel?"

"Satisfactory," Barricade rumbled in return, systems scanning the new radiator that the mechanic had just finished installing and filling up. It was the right size, it was mounted correctly, the fluid was the accurate type and of good quality… "It is good."

"Told you it would be."

"It took you long enough."

"Hey, I can't control what da warehouse does, _amigo_."

The Ford Mustang Saleen took a very brief second to peruse over his knowledge of the Spanish language to determine the meaning of the word. He was idly surprised to find that it meant 'friend'. The human that not two days before he had threatened with a very painful death was now referring to him as a companion in their sense, or a comrade in Barricade's terms. _Strange, forgetful beasts_.

The S281 police cruiser was jolted out of his musings by Romano's voice again. "Start 'er up 'n see how she feels."

Barricade grunted. "_She_? You compare my engine to one of your females?"

"N-no, not exactly, man," the mechanic laughed nervously, itching at the back of his head with a gloved hand. "It's juss' somethin' we do sometimes. Engines, cars, boats, planes. I, uh, yannow, didn't mean nothin' by it as obviously you're as masculatin' as it gets --"

"Stop there, meatwad," the Ford rumbled, chomping his hood down with a bang. "Nervous fidgeting does not flatter you and comparing me to any gender when I do not have one is pointless."

Smirking internally at the insects befuddled look at his last statement, Barricade engaged his motor before Mike could properly respond. Without hesitation the throaty growl of a well-oiled and well-working V8 engine sounded within the confines of the garage, five hundred fifty horses trapped beneath a jet-black hood itching to run. It felt _so_ good; gasoline flowing towards and into his fuel injectors, then to the inside of the cylinders where each of the eight sparkplugs independently sent a spark of light towards the mist of gasoline. An explosion; the piston inside the affected cylinder in turn jerked downwards away from the pressure, forcing the crankshaft to send the opposing piston up in order to repeat the process. Barricade's engine purred gravelly with life, and truthfully, so did he.

Mike smirked and whistled out a catcall. "Goddamned if that don't sound sweet, dude. Hows'it?"

A slow, tentative rev later, the supercharged muscle car replied, his voice full of malignant mirth, "Feels new."

Freedom. Open roads, a full gastank, and nothing but high speeds awaited him just beyond the closed garage door behind him. Freedom. Liberty. The ability to do and go wherever he wished to, as fast as he wanted, with no one to tell him otherwise.

_Alone_, a voice groused at the back of Barricade's mind. He growled softly, the sound devoured by the steady throttle of his motor. He needn't remind himself just how utterly and completely _by himself_ he truly was. Frenzy was gone; the other Decepticons stone cold dead and rusting at the bottom of the ocean; the Autobots would surely be hunting for him, aiming to rid this wet, dirty planet of the last remaining enemy threat. Now all the Ford had to do was survive. Drive. Travel. Stay on the move. Stay alive.

_Alone_.

"Open the garage."

Michael blinked. "What? Yer leavin' already? But I --"

"Just open the door," Barricade growled low. "I have been stuck here for long enough and I want out. I appreciate what you have done and I do hope that you still understand that my statements earlier regarding the secrecy of my existence are still and will always be in effect." Gears shifted and white reverse lights blinked on. "It was a mindnumbingly pleasant few days, Michael Romano, and I bid you a good evening and a good life."

The New York native yelped and scrambled for the garage release button as the Saleen Mustang backed up and threatened to simply run through it. The barrier slung up along its tracks in the ceiling with a clatter, but the sound was lost on Michael. He only watched as the dented and dinged police cruiser backed out of the shop, paused for a second as a car screamed by, only to merge tail-first into traffic and disappear down the road after straightening out. _That was..that was abrupt_.

The spot in the garage, now empty, seemed strange to the New York greasemonkey. His left hand dropped to his side, the other reaching up to scratch the back of his head as he stared out at the road, watching a car or two zoom past. Just like that, it was over; the alien car was gone and would probably never return, questions would go unanswered, and as much as Romano wouldn't say it aloud, he would miss that Ford's snarky, dry sense of humor. Letting his right hand collapse to his hip, Mike tossed the ratchet he'd been holding onto the workbench and started to clean up. Tools were put back in their proper places, antifreeze wiped from the counter, garbage thrown away. He couldn't help but stop on his way to fill a mop bucket with cleaner, looking down and the claw marks in the cement floor. The question still plagued Romano's mind: _What was that? What was he?_

Michael Romano would never resolve his queries, it seemed.

In silence, the mechanic quickly mopped where Barricade had been sitting since Monday, did away with the dirty water, and walked home.

The streets, even at night, were still fairly busy, even if the traffic was nowhere near as bad as during the daylight hours. New York City was one of those big towns that just never really slept; once the day workers went home, the night crews emerged to do their janitorial work and underground trades, questionable in content, of course. Michael hooked his thumbs into his pockets and took a hunched posture, staring at the ground as he passed what he damn well knew was a group of drug dealers who watched him as he walked by. Wisely, he never even glanced in their direction, wholly uninterested in getting himself killed. The sounds of the great city filled the mechanics ears with the life and resonance of home, things such as horns and car alarms and hollered swear words that were as normal to him as oranges were in Florida.

It was late by the time Mike arrived home, but even then he knew there would be no sleep for him that night. Barricade's sudden departure bothered him on a level that it shouldn't have; he had begun to think of the pissant police cruiser as a friend, someone who was fun to talk to and banter with even if Barricade never called him by name. Only by words like "carbonmonkey", or "fleshbag", or even Mike's favorite, "meatwad". Now all Romano had to remember him by was the snarled remains of the souped up Mustang's ram guard, which he had left behind for whatever cryptic reason. _Guess he didn't need it_, thought the New York native as he put on a clean t-shirt after getting out of the shower. _Ain't gonna be sleepin' tonight anyway, might as well walk around_.

So he left.

It was already eleven at night when the mechanic hiked out of his apartment, his Honda left where it was parked. Like a ghost he drifted, taking routes and alleyways long imprinted in his mind from years of walking and driving those same pothole-plagued roads. Mike passed shops and restaurants, stopped into a convenience store for a bottle of water around midnight, and dejectedly turned back for home. Why did it bother him so much that Barricade had, in essence, eaten and run? The realization smacked Romano in the face as he stared down at the dirty, gum-ridden pavement: he felt _used_. He'd spent money out of his own pocket to fix that damned Saleen, and he _barely_ even got a 'thank you' in return before the guy had practically said 'fuck you' and run.

"'Ey, dude."

Mike jerked his head up but didn't stop walking. There was someone following him. "Buzz off, pal. I ain't got no change."

The man, clad in dark clothing continued on undaunted. "Ain't lookin' for change." Michael Romano's hackles raised at the sound of a weapon loading. "Get int' da alleyway."

The mechanic stopped and hunched his shoulders, gritting his teeth hard enough to feel them grind together. Mike's fists balled up in his pockets but he stepped into the alley without resistance, mentally going over how much cash he had on him.

"Turn around," the voice growled.

Romano did. "I said buzz off, bub."

The mugger kept both hands steady on his gun. "Gimme everything you got."

"An' what if I ain't got anythin'? I'm just out for a walk, man, didn't even bring my wallet."

"Ya lyin'," the man snarled dangerously. "Give me ya wallet or I swear I'mma pump you so full a-lead you'll never be able t' float again."

Michael stood firm, glaring, his hands in plain sight. "I think ya oughtta go find someone else to mug. I ain't got shit for you, and you can suck my dick while you're at it and go fuck ya'self with ya little goddamned play gun, eh? Scram!"

He never heard the shot; all Romano felt was something slamming into his shoulder with enough force to send him reeling back against the brick wall behind him. His attacker was making like an Olympic sprinter out of the alley for some reason…

_Oh my God 'n all that's holy._

_He __**shot**__ me._

The realization hit him as hard as the bullet had. Eyes wide, Mike looked down at his right shoulder and his breathing hitched when he saw red staining his otherwise fairly clean white shirt. Then it began to hurt. Impulsively, the mechanic bit back a groan and grabbed the wound, trying unsuccessfully at stemming the flow as he slid down the wall into a sitting position. _Oh god I'mma die. The second time this week, I'mma die._ Sharp stabs of wicked hot pain shot through Romano's mind and body with every ragged breath drawn in. Sirens wailed off in the distance, but the New Yorker knew they were not coming for him. Gunshots, cries for help, cries of rape and fire were so common in the darkness of the city that no one would react. Knowing this, Mike tried anyway.

He sounded weak even to himself.

Unconsciousness flowed closer, its black tendrils gently brushing at his mind to calm some of the pain. _I can't die like this._ It didn't seem right, it didn't seem fair! He hadn't done anything to deserve a death like this unless saving the life of some unknown alien Ford was considered taboo among Christ's higher-ups. Warmth soaked his shirt, but by then Romano was hardly even aware of it. Slowly, his grip loosened and his bloodstained hand fell into his lap as the alley blurred. _I'mma be another homicide. Another case they neva' solve. Oh, god, somebody help me._

The sharp rev of a high-powered engine jerked Mike back into a state of near complete consciousness. His eyes, at first, refused to make out what exactly had made the noise; just a blob of colors that all washed together in a neutral black and white scene. Another snarl, exhaust rattling with authority, and with several irritated blinks of his eyelids the colors finally formed a coherent picture. Slick black metal touched white as the streetlights played and danced across the shining, dented hull, the word 'police' stretched out in reflective letters across the driver's side door. The car had a long prow and a short aft, nose lowered as if ready to rocket down the street in a moment's notice.

Barricade swung his door open. "Get in, fleshwad."

Michael spluttered softly, unable to form the question he wanted to ask.

"Michael," the modified Saleen growled, urging. "_Michael_."

The pain was incredible. Gasping, the mechanic jerked to his hands and knees, left arm curled against his chest. _God, please gimme strength and fortitude, just help me get into that car. Tha's all I'm askin'. Just help me get into th' car 'n he'll help me do th' rest._ It was only feet away, the black leather interior, but it seemed lightyears in the distance to the wounded human being. Gritting his teeth, the New York native lurched forward and grabbed the gray steering wheel, smearing red all over 6 'o' clock. Moaning despite his best efforts, Romano hauled his upper body onto the cool material of the driver's seat, pushing up with his legs so that he sat with a dull 'pluff' on the black leather. It _hurt_. Michael's head was swimming, his world spinning around as he listened to the thud of the door slamming shut and the roar of the engine he'd just fixed three hours before. Blood soaked through his shirt, sullying the cold black seat as it reclined, laying him back as a seatbelt came out of nowhere to click into place across his chest and lap.

Barricade was talking to him – no, he was trying to get him to talk back. It all seemed so very surreal to the New York native; this happened to people every day and yet he never thought it would happen to him. Romano opened his mouth and tried to answer, but no sound came out. Was it odd that the bastard Saleen, normally so very rude and witty, sounded concerned?

Michael didn't know.

And as the world closed in around him, he didn't care.


	8. Leather

Chapter VIII

Leather

By: Landray Depth Charge

_I'm dead._

Feeling was slowly beginning to return to him. Tingling in the ends of his fingers; the feeling of his heart beating within his chest.

_I'mma open my eyes an' be starin' at Jesus. Oh my God, I took his father's name in vain WAY TOO MUCH. Christ, I did it aga – argh!_

A soft bed underneath him, and a blanket on top. His wrist hurt, and breathing brought sharp stabs of agony through his arm and chest. Blearily, Romano opened his eyes, wincing at the bright light, but instead of staring at the image of paradise, he was…gazing up at a cold white ceiling. Bare, soulless walls cascaded down in the same pallid shade, ending in pale tile that was as cheery as the rest of the room. There was a large window, shuttered with blinds, to the mechanics left and a chair to his right.

A chair.

Someone was _in _the chair.

Michael groaned softly and turned his head, brow furrowing as his eyes finally focused on the strange man he'd never seen before sitting in his room. He had sharp, angular features; a strong chin, high cheekbones, an intense gaze set below a firm brow. Perhaps his most defining aspect, though, was this man's short, spiked silver hair, highlighted with white and shaded with startling streaks of black. He sat slouched in the visitor's chair of the hospital room clad in a dark gray trench coat and a pair of blue jeans.

"Who the fuck are you?"

The stranger lifted his head and Mike was taken aback; his eyes were _red_.

"Seriously. I ain't neva' seen ya before, so scram," the mechanic said nervously, fearing that the visitor had bad intentions. "Ya prolly got th' wrong room 'r somethin'."

"Relax, you moron," the gruff, baritone voice sounded. The man looked amused. "It's me."

Michael Romano peered at the unfamiliar face. "You, as in who?"

"You flashbags astound me with your lack of intelligence." The red-eyed one grinned, if not a little maliciously, and the mechanic thought he was going bananas.

"_B-Barricade?"_

"Got it in one."

Michael gaped. First, he had an alien car holed up in his garage, and now apparently said alien car could change shape.

"_How_?"

Barricade, or rather this man who called himself that name, tilted his head. "Hologram." At Michael's utterly clueless look, he sighed and continued. "It's my mobile holomatter projector. The machine is projecting a chosen image from my core processing unit and making it interact with the environment. It's a hologram, it's fake, and I'm outside." The silver-haired man made a lazy motion towards the window with one hand.

Still gaping, Romano tore his floored gaze away from the 'hologram' long enough to look over at the window. The New York native grunted as he swung his legs carefully over the side of the bed and leaned, toes to the floor, for the window, twisting the blinds open. Lo and behold, there was Barricade's actual form, the sleek Saleen Mustang all clothed in black and white, parked in a space outside of his window.

"So weird," he muttered, leaning back against the support in his hospital bed. His chest and shoulder still throbbed. "Ugh, still tryin' ta get my brain ta process that, but…what happened last night, man?"

"You fell victim to a fellow human being. I could not tell you the details behind _why_, but you were struck by a projectile from a semi-automatic nine millimeter weapon," responded Barricade's hologram, his voice strangely human.

"I got shot."

"Yes," affirmed Barricade.

Mike huffed. "Speak English."

The projection crossed its arms. "I was! And for your information, you were shot three nights ago."

The mechanic snapped his head around to stare at the man in the chair, eyes wide. He was out for that long? What about his shop? His coworkers? Did they wonder where he was? Did the cars in the shop get fixed the next morning like he'd promised their owners?

As if reading his mind, Barricade idly straightened the collar of his trenchcoat and said boredly, "Your garage has been in full operation since then. Daniel Fowler has taken up charge in your absence and has kept the place in shape."

Michael Romano went limp in relief. "Thank God."

"You also owe me an interior detailing, by the way."

"Oh yeah?" Mike asked absentmindedly. "Why's that?"

Barricade scowled at him. "The blood you left all over my interior is starting to smell unpleasant."

"…Oh. Sorry, man."

* * *

Barricade was right. Two days later when the hospital finally released the mechanic after extensive watch, Michael stood outside of the white drivers side door and looked in. The windows were down, no doubt Barricade's effort of relieving himself of the stink of the gelatinous smudges of congealed red. The police interceptor let the mechanic know under no uncertain terms that this was quite possibly the most disgusting thing he had smeared all over his seats while sitting around in a parking lot under direct sunlight. Human semen even took second place to dried, caked on blood. Barricade chose not to divulge in that topic. 

"—and do you know how hot it got yesterday? It reached _eighty degrees_. In October. I'm black. I have black leather seats. Do you have _any idea_ what eighty degrees does to blood on _black leather--_"

_This cop can really bitch when 'e wants to._ "I get it, man."

"And you are a horrible actor," Barricade rolled on regardless, sitting otherwise completely motionless in the parking space. "I did everything for you. I made up and fabricated police records, arrest records, a new name and social security number – I even hologrammed you a police I.D. badge and you couldn't act just the _tiniest bit_ official. The head nurse wench thought you were psychotic."

It was how Barricade had explained Mike's arriving in the front seat of a police car. And, according to him, the gray-haired hologram was his cousin, Bill, from Pensacola. Romano sighed.

The hospital washroom towel that he'd heisted was draped unceremoniously across the backrest of the leather seat as the Ford Mustang rambled on righteously, and the New York native tiredly got in. He avoided touching the steering wheel, breathed through his mouth, and studiously tuned out Barricade's bitching as the interceptor rolled out of the parking lot and into horrendous New York City traffic._You'd think we was married._

Somewhere between picking up Mike's prescription and him realizing he had no groceries, he thought up a list of the things most efficient at cleaning stains out of leather: white vinegar and linseed oil. _Gotta hit up that organic store on 3__rd__ for that._ He decided to pick up a few other cleaning materials that he didn't have in the shop and go over the rest of Barricade's cab anyway, since leather needed regular maintenance in order to maintain its quality and plastic dashboards suffered greatly under the hot sun. Keeping them relatively oiled helped to stave off the plastic cracking in the heat. Thinking to do such things without being asked was born of Michael being a car enthusiast; it was just something that he did.

Barricade was kind enough to cart him around for all of an hour. Then his Be-Nice-'o'-Meter ran out and Romano didn't have any quarters, so back to Greasemonkey's they went. Danny and Bugsy both looked up as the supercharged Mustang pulled nose-first into the farthest slot to the left, where it had been sitting since it arrived, surprised to see their boss climb out.

"—Dude! What happ--"

"Ho man! Ya okay?--"

"—And then the bitch with the Camaro came ba—"

"—heard ya got lead-stuffed, and that dumb broad with the Camaro—"

Michael held one hand up to silence the inquisitive assholes. "Whoa whoa, hold up now!"

His employees went quiet. Bugsy was leaning on a mop handle.

_Let's get it all over with in a few words_. "Yeah, I got shot. I was testin' out th' engine in the fuzz car. Yeah, I'm okay now. And tell the broad with the Camaro that I _told her_ that if she didn't get a muffler put on with the tip the exhaust was going to be loud. She can't sue us for her own stupidity!" Mike sighed. "It'll only cost her another hundred bucks or so for us to fuck wit' the exhaust and put a muffler on it. But I ain't doin' it for free."

Danny and Bugsy seemed satisfied, so they went about their business in cleaning up. The police interceptor sat, ever complacent, in utter silence and Michael shook his head; Barricade's disguise was uncannily convincing. There were times in which he forgot completely that the pig car could talk. The New York native went over paperwork in the office for a few minutes as his employees finished up in the garage, emerging only after Fowler and Malone had clocked out and left for the night. Romano set a cup of his linseed oil and vinegar concoction on the cement floor near the driver's side door and tracked down a clean, lint-free rag. With a wince he sat and picked the rag up, and with a sigh he started rubbing at the bloodstain with his cocktail.

Barricade was intrigued. "I did not think you would do this now."

"Ya complainin'?" the mechanic grumbled, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his hand.

"…No," the Mustang rumbled carefully in return. It was strange how his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once when Michael was sitting in the front seat. "I had thought you would recharge before coming back in the morning."

Mike sat back and let the oil and vinegar mix set. "I may not even show up tomorrow since I can't really do shit, doctor said so. So I figured I'd, yannow, just clean ya up tonight if I can get th' stains out in one go. 'N then ya can take off to wherever you're in such a hurry ta get to."

The sharpness of the fleshbag's voice did not go unnoticed, but the Decepticon chose not to address it. "On the subject: I was on the highway and I conducted several checks and realized that I would need an oil change in eight hundred miles as it were and a transmission flush and refill could not hurt. I think I will …wander the city until you feel up to performing."

"But--" Mike stopped and stared at the steering wheel. "Yer gonna stick around? It could be weeks before I can do much of anything. Ya can…ya can just get it done by one a' the guys, yannow?"

"I do not trust your employees with my internals enough to bother letting their greasy, uncaring hands in my undercarriage," Barricade stated with finality. "Even for something as simple and menial as an oil change. I will wait for you to do it."

That was unexpected. The mechanic continued to work on the stains in silence, stunted due to his right arm being in a sling. So Barricade was staying. "I don't think I can let you stay at the garage, man. That'd raise alotta questions and I gotta have this slot open for business."

"I know that, meatbag, I'm not stupid," came the rumbling growl that vibrated the seats. "I will find my own way. Walmart parking lots work just as well for a living car as a garage, minus the rain protection of course."

That made him feel downright shitty. "Yeah, but ya shouldn't have to sit out in the rain or snow or whatever if it gets cold." He felt like he was making a friend sleep in Central Park in the dead of winter.

The Ford Mustang shifted only slightly on his tires, air-conditioning vents pushing out a whispy, whuffling sigh that blew Romano's bangs out of whack. "Overpasses work well for that and there will never be a shortage of those in New York City."

"Yeah, but—"

"No buts, carbonmonkey. Shut up, go home, sleep, and get better. As quick as possible."

And that was the end of that. The mechanic just grinned to himself at the Saleen's cheek and worked at the stains quite steadily. The smell of vinegar made him dizzy on more than one occasion but two hours and some soap and water later rendered Barricade free of the bloodstains that had been baking on his drivers seat. Throughout the process Michael would have sworn that he'd caught the police car purring once or twice, but he never brought it up, hesitant to incense the sentient vehicle's wrath. With Greasemonkey's taken care of, the stains gone, and nothing else to do for the night, Barricade took the fleshwad home and disappeared into the busy city streets.

Mike's recovery began. For the next two weeks, he didn't go to the garage unless he had to and endured two check-ups. He saw neither hubcap nor headlight of the elusive police interceptor and there were times that he thought Barricade had taken off again and wouldn't come back. Then, on a pre-dawn walk he'd taken due to lack of ability to sleep, the sleek ebony form of the Ford motored past him slowly, looking cherry pretty and even sporting a new ram guard. The dents had healed, the hood smoothed out, and Barricade looked like he'd just rolled off of the Saleen show floor.

Romano watched him go past, clothed in a sweatshirt sweater and jeans in the crisp autumn air.

It then occurred to the New Yorker that he had no way to get a hold of Barricade when he felt up to doing an oil change. No phone number, no address, no reliable place that Mike knew he'd be. Walmarts were like McDonald's, they were everywhere, so checking random parking lots was pointless and there were more overpasses in the city than what he cared to count. He was stuck, and had to wait for an opportunity.

Two weeks later, at the same time, Barricade rolled past again.

"'ey!"

The cruiser stopped, brakes letting off a slight squeak.

Romano jogged over to the black specter. "How ya been?"

"New York City never ceases to amuse me," the interceptor rumbled over the steady thrum of his engine. "But fine. You look better. Still pale, however."

"Dude, come on, I'm a New Yorker. I'm always gonna be mime-white." Romano turned his hat backwards and Barricade wondered if he took that thing off even to sleep. "I think I can get an oil change done. Not sure about the flush, but still."

"It will do. When?"

"Stop by the garage tomorrow night after closing?"

"Done." The engine revved. "See you there, meatstick."

Barricade let off of the brakes and hit the gas, and was gone once again. _Son of a bitch can get up and go_.

* * *

_Author's note: First of all, I'd like to ensure to thank anyone who takes a moment to read this series, and another moment to shake the hands of those who are kind enough to leave comments. Reading your reviews both good and bad provide me with a joy and a sense of accomplishment and a wish to continue to please. I would also like to apologize for this chapters lateness. It is the holiday season and I work in retail, full time, so I am oftentimes pulling 40+ hours a week at a job that is physically challenging. I come home most nights and do not feel like doing anything but completing other obligations, taking a hot shower, and going to bed. Bear with me and the slow updates for just a little while longer, and rest assured in knowing that I refuse to leave Collision unfinished. I will be done, you will read the conclusion, regardless of how many chapters that may take. Or how long it may take. _

_Again, thank you, readers, and don't lose faith in me. I'm still plugging away._

_Love, Feesh_


	9. Oil Changes and the Indecencies Thereof

Chapter IX

Oil Changes and the Indecencies Thereof

By: The Feesh

_Speed_.

They ran from him. The highway concrete thrummed beneath him as the slick black prow sliced through the air, rubber hot, sirens screaming as Barricade tore after his prey. The car ahead of him drove recklessly; zigzagging through traffic with their headlights off, as if they thought that would make it harder for him to see them. It didn't. The four teenagers in the cab of the Camry didn't know what was following them; they fled as though they were running from the law when the reality of it was so much harsher. They took flight from something unnatural by this planet's standards, a hunter, an alien with a mind that ran faster than the fastest computer on Earth. A creature that lived by the phrase 'to punish and enslave'.

Barricade gunned it and swerved between a compact and an SUV, earning himself a horn and a middle finger from the driver of the Ford Explorer that he'd cut off. People in New York City oftentimes kept their tongues in check around the cops, but roadrage was still fair game, as the Mustang had discovered. The man's words rolled off of his ebony hide like water off of a ducks back; he had his mind elsewhere. The Camry was driving in an increasingly dangerous pattern, weaving, bobbing, tearing around cars and stopping just this side of running people off of the road but still those lights followed, perched atop the police highway interceptor labeled with the unit number of 643. The boys had been speeding and Barricade had been bored with hiding beneath an overpass, and so he'd given chase.

The worst thing the young males could have done was run. Any human may compare his single-minded zeal to that of an Earthen canine; never run from a dog unless you want to entice it to chase. Barricade was much the same. His thrills were captured in the heat of the hunt, the pursuit, and finally the blissful conclusion that always featured a capture. The Ford Mustang Saleen's alternate form was also appropriate for another activity that was the end of many human beings and the drug of others: _speed_. It was his meth, his drink, his fun, his reason to attend any Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

The Camry got caught behind an eighteen-wheeler and Barricade made his move. Charging around the aft of a sports car he couldn't identify and didn't care to, the interceptor floored it and shot like a missile towards the back end of the offending car. The human males tried to swerve, but it was too late and before they could maneuver evasively the Mustang had rumbled up beside them and come over. A guarded bow came into contact with the Camry's left back wheel well almost softly, carefully, with just enough jarring force to send the Toyota sliding sideways on the highway.

The result was utter chaos. Barricade braked and veered off to the side and into the shoulder as drivers behind him locked their cars up in an attempt at avoiding the dead-stopped vehicle on the interstate. A fenderbender here. A shredded tire there. Several cars sat in the shoulder nearby and still, ten minutes later, no one could say where the cop had gone. Pandemonium had created enough cover in addition to the 7 'o' clock darkness for Barricade to merely get back onto the road and effectively disappear.

By nine, the Saleen was back in the heart of New York City and sitting outside of Greasemonkey's. He revved impatiently as cars whizzed past him, coming unbearably close to taking his mirror off on an occasion or two, and so it was a relief when the last slot of the garage opened and he pulled in.

Mike eyed the hood after Barricade parked, putting a hand on the metal. "…Yer hot."

"Thank you, fleshling, but I'm afraid I am not interested in interspecies dating."

The mechanic gave the Mustang the hairy eyeball. "Haha, very funny. Yer engine's hot, ya dickhead, now we gotta wait for the oil to drain down into th' pan!"

"Oh, like you have anything else to do," groused Barricade sharply, headlights blinking once.

"'N what if I do?"

"You don't."

"But what if I did?"

"I'd have to check to see if Hell had frozen over yet."

Romano crossed his arms and huffed, ruffled at the interceptor's cheeky wit yet again. Still, it wasn't something that he was altogether unfamiliar with, as that sort of sarcastic, mean humor was as common as rats and taxicabs in the Big Apple.

"Yeah, well, sit here an' wait then, ya asshat. I'mma head home and grab something to eat while we wait fer ya engine ta cool off."

Barricade's peripheral vision watched as the human stalked off with his hat on backwards and his hands in his pockets. He listened to the sound of the door closing and sneakered footsteps as they extended down the sidewalk until even his advanced hearing could no longer detect it. No one should have been able to speak to him like that. No one but a military superior should have gotten away with such disrespect and yet Barricade took it in stride and was not bothered. A lowly little proton pack had gotten away with smarting off to him and the Saleen could not find it within himself to care. It wasn't that big of a deal anyway. Michael was still inferior.

It was a good two hours before Romano showed up again. Barricade perked up and straight away he became suspicious. The human was nervous, perhaps even afraid. His heart rate had spiked and there was perspiration on his forehead; his hands were behind his back; his posture was slumped and suggested feeble meekness. The police impersonator did not like the feeling he got.

"…What did you get into, you meddlesome Slim Jim?"

The mechanic winced. "Now, Barricade, ya gotta listen ta me real close an' please don't kill me or anyone else. My ex was at my apartment when I got there."

The Mustang sat in silence, waiting through the pregnant pause.

"She'd, uh, she'd been waitin'. I didn't know she was comin' 'n shit and I hadn't gotten her message."

Another damn pause._Today, fleshbag, anytime today would be sufficient_.

"She sorta left me with something that I couldn't leave by 'imself at my place this late at night. He gets freaked out at night by himself."

The room felt like it had suddenly plummeted in temperature. Despite being a car and immobile as it was, Michael could almost sense the tense stillness as Barricade surely registered what he was implying. _I'mma get killed. Again. Third time's a charm? Or is it the fourth now?_

Still, he swallowed the lump in his throat and turned his head, waving at something out of Barricade's line of vision, something that was in the office. "C'mere," Romano prompted before turning back to the car. He was a curious shade of sickly pallid.

A small boy, perhaps eight years old and clad in a jacket and denim pants, wandered from the garage office and stood by the mechanic. He yawned and rubbed at one eye.

Barricade was very still. He thought he'd made himself utterly clear and without possibility of being misunderstood. No one else could know. Michael knew that, _and still he brings this bratling right infront of my face. Still!_ The child did not threaten him in itself but the possibility of the youngling shooting off his mouth at school the next day or telling a friend about the cool talking car his dad was working on. _This will not do. This will not do._

To all outward appearances, he was a car; a soulless machine, created by man, operated by man. He would stay that way.

Mike Romano could not honestly say that he didn't expect the all-encompassing silence that enveloped the shop after Nicholas walked in. The brown-haired boy stared boredly at the car as it did what cars did best and sat there doing nothing.

"'Cade, this is Nicky. He's my son 'n he's promised not ta say a word ta anyone."

Not going to bait me, you untrustworthy little creep. Oh no. And after I get a hold of you and spread your entrails all over the garage while you're still awake you will wish you –

"Can I play with the sirens?"

The question caught both car and adult off guard. Nicholas looked expectantly up at his father, waiting for the answer in silence.

"N-naw, kiddo, maybe just sit in the office while I finish working, okay?" Mike offered nervously, ushering the disappointed youngster back into the side room where the register was.

The police interceptor was eerily silent as he allowed himself to be lifted a few feet above the ground on a car hoist, his engine mostly cooled and safe to work with. The mechanic slid a catch pan beneath him and weasled his way underneath the car on his back, finding the plug to the oil reservoir at the bottom of Barricade's engine easy to remove. Pausing after loosening it, Mike prepared himself and quickly scooted his upper body out of the way after yanking the plug free, skillfully avoiding getting a bath in the expected rush of oil.

The rush that didn't come.

Barricade grunted.

Romano was puzzled. Gravity dictated that the thick, slick liquid should have drained out into the catch pan without a problem, but nothing was happening. Not even so much as a dejected drip escaped the motor above his head._What in Sam's hell? Izze all blocked up or somethin'?_ Brushing aside the cackle brought on by the inkling of a thought that had something to do with vehicular constipation, the New Yorker banged on the plastic bottom of the oil pan. The Saleen growled threateningly. Mike squeaked a feeble apology. Moving closer, he peered at the tube that was supposed to lead to the used reservoir and wished he had a flashlight.

Barricade sighed.

Mike received a mouthful of burnt motor oil.

The strangled gurgle that erupted from the fleshwad almost amused him, and probably would have had the Mustang not been sorely unhappy with the mechanic at the time. Romano scrambled out from underneath the Ford and made like a track star for the washroom, choking and spitting and cursing amidst it all.

Barricade only sat in smug satisfaction as his oil pan drained out. _Serves the puny meatstick right._

"I'll kill ya!" the New Yorker hollered from the bathroom.

And the Saleen slipped up. "You can tr—"

By that point, it was too late. Nicholas had already gotten up from playing with his toy cars on the floor to watch his dad make a mad dash for the sink. The boy stared uncomprehendingly at the car that, for all intents and purposes, sounded like it had just said something and Barricade knew he was done for. The kid would blab to someone and someone might believe him and the military _Primus alive_ the military would be sent after him and he'd have to assume another alternate form and hide and –

Nicholas was right there. Standing by his passenger door, looking up at his slightly elevated form.

"You just talked," the child said. It was not a question. It was a statement.

_Statements insinuate factual knowledge_.

Nicky reached up and ran his hand along the middle of a white door panel, as if fascinated by the otherwise ordinary looking metal. "Did'ntcha?"

"…Yes," Barricade ventured hesitantly. Younglings. He never did well with them, no matter the species.

"Wow!" came the enthusiastic exclamation of the suddenly very awake Romano child. "Hi! My name's Nicky, like daddy said."

The Saleen couldn't recall the last time he'd felt this discomfited. "Hello, Nicky."

"What's your name?"

"…Uh…Barricade."

"Wow!"

Then the child plopped on the cement floor to stare up with a smile at his undercarriage. Romano was watching with a certain stomach-knotting fear as his only son conversed with the lifted but still dangerous police interceptor, not sure what he'd do if Barricade attacked. He still remembered those strange metal claws but could not recollect exactly where they had come from with any clarity. Still, the Mustang seemed to be leaning away from Nicky on the hoist, bringing just a little peace to Michael's nervous mind.

Chancing it, Mike walked back over and checked the catch pan, keeping a close eye on the Saleen and his son. Both were silent as the mechanic continued, replacing the oil filter with a bit of difficulty and tossing in a little less than eight quarts of new oil. Nicholas stood up and watched, and Romano found himself explaining the oil change as he went, pointing parts out and even picking the boy up and letting him pour in a quart. Barricade did not think he'd signed up to be an educational model and grumbled somewhere in his internals. He was still displeased. This would have to be addressed with the most extreme of measures if he was to survive.

"Daddy said you was a secret."

The bratling spoke again, which jarred him from his thoughts. The hoist was lowered and Barricade's shocks hissed as his weight was once more pressed firmly on the cold, unforgiving concrete. The Romano child was staring at him from the side, at his door, at his fender, at his mirror, seemingly looking for a point of focus and settling on his passenger window.

"I keep really good secrets, yannow," chirped the boy. He looked tired. "'N I promise I won't say nothin'."

Barricade registered that the garage door behind him had lifted. But the kid seemed to be waiting on him.

"Do you?" he asked dubiously, not really caring about the brats answer, as he knew what needed to be done at this point. His engine came to life and rumbled contentedly.

"Uh huh. Yer safe with us. With my dad."

The pause was infinitesimal, but still it existed. The throaty growl of the eight-cylinder engine hitched as though in hiccup from fuel restriction but continued on without a hindrance after that. Nicky, in all of his innocence, smiled and reach out, patting the white door right over the 'I', as if to reassure the Saleen Mustang of his security within the garage.

Barricade backed out into the mostly empty street and turned his tires, launching down the road and disappearing into the distance.

Freedom. _Escape_. Fear. Synonymous words in Barricade's biggest lie yet.

The lie he was telling to himself.

* * *

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! ;)

Love, Feesh


	10. The Art of Fabrication

Chapter X

The Art of Fabrication

By: The Feesh

The attack had come when Barricade had least expected it. A shot to the rear bumper had sufficiently jarred him out of recharge with all the force of Christ Himself punching him in the arse and the Saleen leapt into robot mode without a second thought, twisting about to engage whoever, or whatever, was shooting at him.

It was also a good thing that millions-of-years-old shock troopers were hard to kill, otherwise Barricade might have been pushing up daisies before he could even turn around.

Bumblebee's solar cannon was nothing to joke around about. It singed his armor and caused it to crack within two pulls of the scout's well-aimed trigger, forcing the heavier Decepticon soldier into evasive motion. Both gyroflails came into play; sharp, glinting shards of rapidly rotating knives steadied on the end of long chains sang through the air amidst a chorus of gunfire. Out in the middle of nowhere, New York, Bumblebee had chosen the right place and the right time to strike.

The skeleton of a half-finished building lay in rubble when the gunfire and weapons were ceased and holstered, being at the wrong end of the fighter's tussle that followed. Barricade was superior in hand-to-hand and always would be, and if it wasn't for the Camaros incessant resourcefulness the Saleen would have pinned him and taken him out of commission right then and there. After a wild roll and a struggle for physical domination, Barricade forced the yellow Autobot onto his back, raising a fist in preparation for beating the snot out of the little brat. Unfortunately, destroyed construction zones offered much in the way of very hard bludgeoning weapons. It had come as a painful shock when the handful of concrete block slammed into the side of his head, causing the Mustang's computers to stop in stunned surprise as he reeled unsteadily onto his feet and staggered away.

Swiftly, the scout rolled to his feet and charged his cannon once more, but chose not to fire. New Order suddenly came through Bumblebee's speakers, "_Hey now what you doing  
Don't go down the road to ruin  
Look back at where you came from  
Count to ten before you go wrong_."

Barricade growled and shook his helm. "You attacked me, Auto_brat_, not the other way around. Suffer the consequences!"

"_Stop right now, thank you very much_," chirped the Spice Girls on loudspeaker, finishing up his thought with Institute, "_we need to talk about it_."

"You assault me as a conversation opener," growled the Saleen dangerously, internals rattling. "Intelligent. Turn off your slagging radio and _speak_ to me, underling."

"What are you doing with the human, Barricade?" blurted Bumblebee hotly.

"What human?"

The Camaro gave a tinny growl. "Michael James Romano, the mechanic. You know exactly who I'm talking about, so don't waste your processed air on being coy."

"He's a mechanic," Barricade snarled in return, hunching his shoulders and taking a threatening step forward. "He did what fleshling car mechanics do and here I am. Step off, bug."

Bumblebee's bright blue optics narrowed and his battle mask slid over his face. The Ford was toying with him, baiting him, and lying to him. There was no way Barricade would allow a human to work on him, he didn't possess the ability to trust that much. As far as the Autobot's knowledge of his friend-turned-enemy, he'd sooner rust than trust anyone but his own hands with his health. Knowing that the police interceptor was a recognized liar and a talented one to boot did not do anything to bolster Bumblebee's confidence in Barricade's words.

"Yeah, and I'm Cheech Marin," came the condescending response. "Optimus wants to know what you're doing out here."

The Decepticon snorted, snapping out the blades to his left flail weapon. "_Optimus_ can do the same as you and eat _slag_. It is _none_ of your business what I am doing here, so beat it before I rip out your vocalizer and stuff it down your intake tubing!"

Bumblebee sidestepped two paces, standing alongside a cracked concrete wall. Should the need arise, he could use that as a makeshift shield. "Been there, done that. Put away your weapons, fuzzy, no need for violence, right?"

He hated the tone in the Camaro's voice. "Which brings me back to the subject on the fact that you shot me to start a chat. Is that how the Autobots are doing it these days? No more 'hello, how are you'?" Barricade sneered hatefully, words dripping with bitter sarcasm.

"Oh, that?" Bumblebee shrugged and tipped his head to the side. Had he possessed a mouth he may have been grinning. "That was payback for Kri-Lee. We're even, creep." The bright yellow Autobot lowered his cannon but kept it warmed up and ready to fire. "All right, listen. I didn't drive all the way out here and hunt you down and spy on you for nothing, so I wanna know what's going on. You don't associate with humans, Barricade. You're too good for them."

"That would be correct," the interceptor spat. "As I stated, he is a mechanic, I was in need of repair. Put the ends together and what do you get? Nothing at all."

"Your internal repair systems would have handled whatever damage just fine."

"Why wait? Why wait for two weeks, rotting under an overpass while my systems finished repairs when I had it settled and done in less than one?" Barricade snorted and ground out a mechanical sound of displeasure. "Leave. Run home to your little fleshling friends and your comrades. I'll be leaving this Primus forsaken city shortly and moving on."

The Chevrolet's blue optics dimmed. "My commander wants to keep tabs on you. You're the last Decepticon threat on Earth."

"The subject of my threat is not an issue. I am concerned over my survival, and that is all. Beat it, brat, and do not follow me, lest you want to be voiceless forever and onwards."

Bumblebee stood for several seconds before turning and walking away. The highway greeted him with open arms and the sleek gold form tore up the asphalt. Thoughts roiled through his intelligent mind; Barricade was not telling the whole truth. He believed with little doubt that the police impersonator was more concerned with his own well being then he was with wreaking havoc, as creating disturbances risked gaining attention. It was deeply ingrained in every Transformers natural survival instinct: to survive, one must hide, be inconspicuous and not draw attention to oneself. Their entire species revolved around hiding in plain sight.

It also made perfect sense that Barricade would not want to lurk around the same area as the Autobots. Bumblebee knew that Ironhide would hardly be inclined to hold a strict ceasefire if he ever found the Saleen Mustang skulking about Tranquility. Along that same thought strain, Barricade's presence in the sleepy little town may have been considered a greater threat anyway, to Sam and Mikaela. It was logical that Barricade would want to stay as far away from a potential menace as possible. Why the doubts? Why the uncertainty? Bumblebee couldn't be sure. The former Decepticon officer was a talented liar and often strung wild lies and created entire worlds based on fallacy. He could fib just about anyone until their head spun; it was one of Barricade's many talents.

Bumblebee had to wonder whether or not he'd received total honesty.

Somehow, he doubted it.


	11. New York, New York

Chapter XI

New York, New York

By: The Feesh

_So thin._

_Fragile.  
_

_Unsuspecting._

_They play like sparklings do and even the creators – the maternal and paternal genetic donors – do not so much as look twice in my direction. So I sit, still and silent, unblinking and unmoving as the city throbs and progresses around me without pause. _

_This city, like so many on this planet and on others beyond, has a pulse all its own. It's alive, it has its own rhythms and beat to which it steps to. The pounding sound of footsteps as the masses cascade down the sidewalks provides an appropriate thrumming backdrop for the fortissimo of clattering noise that otherwise drifts up from the city streets; plates clanging, horns honking, irritated drivers and passengers yelling accented profanities at one another. _

_This is a city of anger, rage, and violence._

_It is a city I could come to enjoy._

_In my vast travels in this country, this one the native fleshlings choose to call "America", I have come across other towns such as this, in which the populous prides itself in the hard-nosed and callous pride and roughness that they strive to exhibit. Philadelphia. Pittsburgh. Detroit. Boston. Chicago. Even Miami. I have perused them all but none quite stand up to the sheer viciousness of New York City, even if Detroit, Michigan came close. Then again, there is nothing in Michigan other than car shows, asshole drivers, and bears. Being a police interceptor has no standing on that state's highways. _

_New York is much the same in regards to respect. Hooded punks wearing chains and carrying weaponry beneath their coverings give me dirty looks as I roll by, equally hating me as much as I hate them, and they know not even what I am. New York City's hatred is unanimous, is anonymous, and does not discriminate._

_Specifically concerning their young population. Insect teenagers, pfah, detestable to such a degree that I'd not be bothered if they all spontaneously combusted at once. They lack any and all semblances of discipline – evidently their creators did not beat them enough when they were younger. Once they reach a certain age the younglings rebel against their parents and do as they wish to do, no matter how illegal or how damaging these activities might be to their futures. _

_But young. But young, they are fresh, bleached, malleable minds waiting to be warped at will. Ready to be molded at their creators and teachers whims, to be prepared for life or destroyed for eternity at the drop of a hat. The child who gets straight perfect scores through school, or the one who loses his mother to a rape-murder at an early age. All it takes is one…little…event… to fuck up a life and unravel a mind into utter, sweet, irreparable chaos. _

_The sparklings before me are as of yet untouched. They play and scream and run around like the cockroaches they are, playing tag or dodgeball or whatever game it is that involves putting a ball through a hoop on a pole. Basketball, I think. They are sorry shots, the young ones. But they laugh and clamber about the park as I watch, an empty police unit staring in with cold, unfeeling, uncaring eyes made of glass and light. They could all burn alive right before me and I'd not move. None of them are of my concern, and only one is of my interest._

_That brown-headed boy, there. Climbing on the colorful set of plastic and iron, twisted into a dome safe for the creatures to play on. Nicholas has cast several glances in my direction as he goes along and continues to do so, even having the nerve to wave for a split second. I am but a lifeless vehicle to the teachers who check to see who the child may have been waving at, and the Romano brat keeps on his way. Eventually he gives it up and forgets about the talking Mustang his father worked on in the garage._

_But I watch him. I listen to him. I single out his voice using careful filters and pay attention to every word he says, every noise he makes. I sit, I stare, and I study. For the past three days I have kept careful watch on the boy, sure to keep out of sight or otherwise unobvious until today. I am listening, waiting for the words I don't ever want to hear, waiting for an opportune moment to –_

_But it has not yet come to such an end. To his credit the child has blabbermouthed smartly, talking to his teachers and friends about the "cool" police car his father worked on. Not once had the secret been uttered. _

_Mm. So the brat seems to be able to keep to himself. It had better stay that way._

_The striped orange ball ricochets off of the rim of the basket and careens my way. Stock still I remain, even as the thing bounces onto my hood with a clatter and collides with the glass windscreen separating my interior from the rest of the world. The ball rolls forlornly to the side and off of my fender, momentum spent. The brown-headed youngling bounds over and grabs it up with a whispered "sorry" and off he flounces once again to join his companions in the park._

_Orgh._

_I hate sparklings._

_I hear a familiar voice and tune to it, turning my scanners away from the boy and down the street. The mechanic is coming to retrieve his spawn. It is time for me to leave. Without much hesitation I wait for traffic to clear before bullying my way back into the eastward flow and disappearing around a corner. _

_I am certain the crotchdropling will mention my presence to the carbonmonkey. Said carbonmonkey will no doubt become nervous despite himself, as in reality, he does not know who I am or what I am really here for. That frightens him. The unknown factors of my presence unnerve him and so he pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind and ignores them. However, I would put credits down on the bet that those thoughts plague him after the sun has gone down, when the home is quiet and there is nothing but the silence to listen to. That is when the mind speaks loudest._

_Psychology. There is a certain advantage for me in having such a thing as a hobby. What better way to torment a victim than to be able to get into their minds with such terrifying accuracy? To be able to tell them what they are thinking, feeling, even wanting and desiring? I know what frightens these fleshbags. I know what's in their puny little heads, and I use it whenever possible. _

_What I cannot predict with certainty is what one or another may do next under circumstances such as these. I am loathe to the thought of leaving New York City, aside from jaunts into the countryside to rest, for I am unsure as to how long Nicholas and Michael will keep silent. One or the other will slip up eventually. When that day comes, they will most likely be written off as mentally unstable and shunned, requiring no retaliation from myself._

… _Yet. _

_Twilight provides suitable cover in the encroaching darkness, for me, and the automobile behind me. It is a big vehicle, a truck of some sort, and I scan it idly out of curios—_

_Slag. _

_SLAG. _

_If there was one trigger-happy nutjob I never wanted to face on the battlefield, it would be Ironhide. I step on the gas and take off, watching him accelerate in response. My engine is far superior to his when it comes to acceleration and speed, so I leave him in my dust with ease and drift around the crooked country turns with the grace of a street legal racecar._

_What were they thinking in sending the gunner to run me down? The Camaro, certainly, that would have made sense, but not this. The Autobot's logic leaves too much to be desired and something just feels wrong about it all. I am missing something. A mistake that like couldn't possibly have been made unintentionally…_

_Ratchet emerges from a side road and I swerve to avoid him, rocketing past the lumbering Hummer. I lay on the speed and bring up a map of the area, plotting out the fastest route to the nearest highway, be it two lane or more, it doesn't matter. I need open roads. Taking a dirt access road at stupidly high speeds, I tear across a field which dumps out onto a slightly bigger main road on the other side, feeling as though I may rip out my undercarriage. Ironhide and Ratchet are onto me like dogs. Almost there. The main road, Kenson Street, is long and straight, I can put some distance between those abhorrent idiots and myself once I get to –_

_A Peterbilt pulls across the opening in the fence line and I slide to an ungraceful, dust congested halt. Ironhide and Ratchet behind me, the Autobot leader before, I have nowhere left to run. _

_So I fight. _

_Eat flail, bitches._


	12. Liberal Imprisonment

Chapter XII

Liberal Imprisonment

By: The Feesh

Ironhide was swearing, and not in the traditional foul-mouthed sense.

He was swearing that Barricade was part hamster.

Being smaller than the others had its obvious advantages in speed, and the Saleen modded Mustang was proving just that. Every shot they took at him he ducked, or jumped, or sidestepped, or flipped around – it was highly frustrating for a certain weapons specialist.

And those flails of his sang a tune he'd never heard before.

It was a rare privilege to see someone who knew his or her artillery like Barricade did. The gyroflails he wielded were considered a high skill weapon, one that took practice and work to get right, rather than downloading a program. There was finesse and calculation involved in each seemingly haphazard swing, given that even a minor blunder in retracting those rapidly gyrating knives could result in incapacitating bodily injury to the user. Ironhide didn't doubt that Barricade had lost his fair share of fingers and arms in learning how to use them.

It was admirable.

It was also _irritating_ as hell.

The black Topkick snorted and watched carefully. They had that damnable Saleen pinned against the side of the field where the trees were thick with Ratchet to the left and Prime and Ironhide mostly on the right. Barricade's routes of escape had been effectively blocked off and he was making the best of his situation. Ratchet and Prime had already taken a flail to the face each – which is when they had found out that those weapons apparently had a thirty-foot or more reach. Tactically, at that point, everyone had taken a nice, big step back but Barricade was a dogged little shit and kept coming at them, keeping them within swinging range and forcing them to fire. _Not that I mind,_ Ironhide thought sardonically as he watched his target concentrate his efforts on the Autobot leader.

Optimus Prime had already attempted to talk Barricade out of attack mode. He'd only gotten so far as a half-said plea to put away his arms before he'd gotten a mouthful of gyrating barbs, and it had all gone south after that.

"Barricade, cease this nonsense!" the eighteen-wheeler attempted once more. "It is ridiculous. It is unnecessary!"

The black and white Decepticon sent his left gyroflail swinging in a graceful arc for the side of Prime's head, which the latter ducked. "Says the Autobot leader who deemed it necessary to trap me. Hostile actions are met with hostility, fool!"

He drew back to let loose his weapon again, and Ironhide took the shot. No soldier was incapable of making mistakes, and Barricade had done so when he'd concentrated his anger and firepower on the Topkick's commander so acutely, momentarily overlooking the trigger-happy weapons specialist. Ironhide smiled with a sense of triumph as the shot he'd aimed low slammed home beneath the Mustang's raised arm, sending Barricade back into the trees with the force of it.

Ratchet's fingers twitched. He didn't like Barricade in the slightest and wouldn't mourn him if he died; too many years had the ancient medic sat back and repaired the tell-tale damage dished out by the shock trooper's powerful hands; too many years did he watch soldiers young and old be carted off and used as scrap when they came back from a fight gone wrong against the small Decepticon officer. No, he wouldn't care if Barricade suddenly ceased to exist, but he'd be _damned_ if he sat back and let someone die on his watch. To do so would lower him to a killer's level and betray every oath he'd ever sworn to his profession.

Of course, that didn't mean he had to repair the little grunt at all if Barricade's repair systems could handle the damage done. Ironhide had chosen a target area that was particularly lightly armored, though.

"Tell me you didn't have your cannons on full power, Ironhide," Ratchet rumbled.

The Topkick grinned. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't."

The H2 rubbed at his helm in a human gesture of irritation. Carefully, oh so carefully, Ratchet moved forward, wary of the still form of the Saleen, scanners on full. Caution was still exercised despite the sophisticated sensors and radar that the Autobot medic possessed; it would have been easy for him to tell if Barricade was conscious, but that didn't mean he could predict his next attack. The Ford twitched and the steady _clck clck clck_ of a heavy chain retracting pierced the air; both extended gyroflails leisurely slithered back towards their master, closed up, and took their rightful positions at his wrists.

Within a moment, Barricade was fully aware and lurching upwards, rolling back to his feet with a snarl. Debris clung to his armor and pain shot up his side – but it was oh-so very ignorable. The damage was minute for what it could have been had the gunner had his cannons on full power, so the Saleen took advantage of Ironhide's foolishness. _Not the first mistake they have made today. Certainly not the last_.

Prime took a small step back. "Cease fire, all of you. Step back." The crazed glint to the Mustang's quadoptics made him twitch.

"Listen to me, Barricade," Optimus urged quietly after his troops had done as he'd asked. "Perhaps it was wrong of us to pursue you, but you and I both know that there would have been no conversation to be had if you'd had an open road near you. We had to box you in. We came here to speak to you about a very serious concern, and now that we have your attention..."

The S281 Extreme let out an armor-rattling growl that combined the throaty sound of a V8 engine with something demonic. "Speak, then, Autobot, and get out of my face."

Ironhide rumbled, faceplates forming a deep frown but Optimus lifted a hand to him. "As my scout attempted to tell you the last time you spoke, you are still a considerable threat. You have murdered and tortured countless Autobots in the past, and I am willing to classify everything you've done as following orders as you should have, even when I know this was not always the case." The Peterbilt straightened up some. "I do not want to incarcerate you, Barricade. I will not punish you for following your orders. But, you are still a substantial threat to the local life forms of this planet."

The Saleen wasn't sure he enjoyed where this was going.

Prime continued. "I want you to have a certain level of freedom, but we need some cooperation from you." Pausing, he mentally prepared himself for how _well_ this was surely going to go. "Come back with us to Tranquility and you will be allowed free reign of the entire West Coast for the time being. The longer you go without incident, the more distance you will be permitted." He paused again, as the shock trooper already looked ready to blow a headgasket. "And I need for you to consent to being removed of your weapons."

Barricade twitched. They had chased him down all the way out here, where he was minding his own business and doing his own thing, to tell him that they were so _kindly_ offering to strip his freedom and his weaponry away? The very _thought_ made his fluid pressure spike with something akin to fiery, passionate annoyance. Tiny pieces in his hydraulic systems jerked in response to the liquid moving around, and as a result, the Saleen's talons twitched restlessly as he otherwise stood still and stared incredulously at the group of Autobots before him. The … the _audacity_.

_Rage._

Barricade's blades snapped out as both tires fell from his wrists and he swung again. "First, you send that obtuse mechanical banana after me to start a fight with the excuse to 'talk'," the police interceptor snarled hatefully, forcing the group of them to duck beneath the rapid swing of his weapons. "Then, you track me, hound me, and corner me with your cannons out and expect me not to react with violence." Ironhide revved up his guns for another shot and Barricade showcased his incredible speed, whipping a flail back and sending it smashing right into the gunner's face. Ratchet was moving to the left, a detail that he capitalized upon, focusing both gyroflails on the medic. "_Next_, you expect me to give up the freedom I have had since the end of the war to be liberally confined within a set of boundaries like a refugee – " the Saleen brought to bear his shoulder-mounted missile launcher, firing in rapid succession three projectiles for the Autobot leader. "—in addition to being disarmed. I will not become your prisoner and I will certainly not sit content to strain at the end of _your_ leash, Autobot. You ask for consent. I _deny!_"

Optimus Prime scowled, armor smoking from the impact of the high-speed missiles that the livid Mustang had fired off. Admittedly, he hadn't expected Barricade to agree to anything at all. "Do not make us do this!"

"Do what?" he snapped in return. "Kill me?" Barricade seemed to twist his ugly faceplates into a toothy grin that looked more like a snarl than something pleasant. "You will find as countless others have: I am not so easily destroyed."

The Saleen was fast.

Ratchet had made one critical mistake in scooting off to the left. The Decepticon knew that the medic had been hoping to squeak by and come at him blindside, but with that screaming yellow-green paintjob, there was no way he was getting away with it and Barricade had taken advantage of the move. He'd driven the Hummer as close to the tree line as he could get him with his blades. Since the two big guns were to the right and the medic was off to his far left, a giant hole opened directly in front of him.

Barricade moved in the same moment Ratchet did. The Hummer lunged at his side, but he was heavy and cumbersome and frankly, the smaller shock trooper had absolutely no trouble out-maneuvering him. Optimus and his gunner leapt towards him, but it was too late – their target had already rocketed forward with speed that belied how short and stocky he was and had performed an Airs Above the Ground transformation, landing with a sharp thud on all four tires. Dual exhaust pipes rattled and roared as five hundred fifty horses came to life beneath a jet-black hood and all the three larger Autobots could do was watch as Barricade took off like a shot as soon as he felt rubber meet asphalt.

Kenson Street was two miles long and perfectly straight. Optimus listened to the distant high-pitched whine of Barricade's Saleen supercharger as he shoved it into fifth gear and slammed on the gas. There was no point in attempting to chase him.

Ratchet blinked. "…That went better than expected."

Ironhide gave him a withering look. The medic shrugged.

"Bumblebee," Optimus said over communications link. "Barricade is heading west on cr-16. See if you can tail him at a distance to see where he goes."

_"Do I even have to ask how it went?"_

"No, no you don't. He's going to try to disappear and we have to take him back by force. He is too dangerous to be allowed free reign on this planet."

_"Yeah. Don't I know it? Not that I really fancy the idea of him being anywhere near Sam and Mikaela, though, Optimus. Not with free reign."_ The Autobot faction leader heard the revving of Bumblebee's engine in the background.

Ironhide nodded. "Even if Ratchet and I disarmed him, he is like any typical Decepticon. I performed a plausible weapons scan on him during the battle and found that his fingers are sharp-edged and he possesses oversized hydraulic motors to both arms. Theoretically we can remove the hydraulic augmentations…"

"But if my scans are correct," the Hummer spoke up. "Removing the hydraulic system could cripple his ability to grip anything at all. As far as I could tell, the larger motors were a replacement upgrade he must have gotten at some point. I'd have to take a look in order to make a final decision on it."

_"And he bites,"_ Bumblebee quipped over the link. _"Really slagging hard."_

Prime rubbed the bridge of his nose idly. "And if you left the hydraulic system in place?"

"He'd be just as dangerous. The system was designed for a mech his size specifically, and I wager he can crumple light-grade armor with minimal effort," replied Ironhide grimly. "And that is Cybertronian grade. Human armor is tough, but I still think Barricade could tear a tank apart with his bare hands."

_"Have any of you ever seen his _teeth_? The mech is a walking weapon, Optimus."_

"Sir, if I can make a suggestion as to our next move?" queried Ratchet to his old friend.

"Of course, Ratchet. Please do."

Optimus, Ironhide and Bumblebee went silent to listen and the only background noise was the soft chirp of crickets and the din of the Camaro's engine over communications. "We cannot assume anything without having a closer look, and there is no point in speculating without foundation. We have used stealth against Barricade before and it has worked, but now we know he will be looking for us and it is my assumption, as medic and by far not as a battlefield specialist, by common sense that he will not allow us to surprise him again. But we need to try. All Ironhide and I need is a few minutes with him supine to be able to make a more accurate assessment."

"My cannons work brilliantly for incapacitation."

"That is not what I meant, Ironhide." The ambulance-modded Hummer focused once more on his leader. "I'd rather figure out how to surprise and restrain him instead of shooting him until he can't fight back, just on principle."

"_Would it be worth the effort of physical restraints? It might be easier to, you know, knock him unconscious for a couple of cycles."_

"Barricade has medium-grade armor all around, and I think most of it is reinforced. I personally think it would be easier to use his own chains to immobilize him." The other three went quiet to contemplate that. "The chains to his flail weaponry are also medium-grade armor. He cannot and would not want to break those. It might be a bit of a risk, but if we can get in close, we can let him use the flails in defense as he normally would. We would just grab them before he retracts them."

It made sense, but… "What if he has chain releases?" asked Ironhide. "What if the chains are detachable and he can release them at will?"

"_If he lets them go, he loses both back wheels with the flails. Car can't get real far on two wheels. It wouldn't be tactically sound."_

It could work. "Bumblebee, keep an eye on him. Follow him, but don't let him know you're there. He will be very alert now, so be careful. We will _rendezvous_ with you shortly." Optimus looked up after the yellow sports car's confirmation. They had a job to do and a Saleen to catch.

"Autobots: transform, and roll out!"


	13. Fanatica

Chapter XIII

_Fanatica_  
by: The Feesh

_They thought they'd won. When I went down due to a mistake on my part, they cheered and ran off to do whatever it was that they thought they had to do. Ohoho, but they were wrong._

_My weapons are dangerous to both mechanoids my size and the organics that I commonly have to encounter. Thus, it was not surprising even to me when the blade came from behind, moving on given momentum and took me by surprise. I can imagine what they must have thought, to see the adversary that had gotten shot by shotgun rounds near point-blank and had shaken it off without a dent getting cleanly decapitated by his own weapon. _

_They must have thought me silly, pea-brained, or stupid. _

_No._

_The insects left me behind and fled the building, and I could hear Megatron in the distance. Reserve hard drives kicked in and my systems recollected and began to reboot, but they ran on energy conservation mode in order to put my regeneration systems at full speed. I knew I had time; the fleshlings would be too busy dealing with my leader … or rather, they would be too busy dying at his hands._

Megatron.

_There were explosions somewhere, screaming, I could still feel vibrations in the floor as surely the dam began to crumble beneath the assault. The thought crossed my back-up mind that I could die here, but it would have been a sacrifice worth making for my cause. A sacrifice I have been willing to make for millennia. _

_**Decepticons forever.**_

_Silence encroached me for a time frame undeterminable._

/ :unit Frenzy offline, span unknown. Last recorded memory file: F43.18.

…

…

System check initiated.

_My functioning scanners and radar served as my only connection to the outside world aside from touch. The dermosensors that covered every inch of my frame were still functioning and highly keen; I felt no disturbances through the concrete, heard no evidence of violence, and could only barely detect a few remaining heat signatures some rooms away that could have been insects. A bloom of satisfaction welled up in me at that point: we won. The dam was dead, but still standing, and surely the Decepticons were the victors._

_But… something was wrong._

_I felt… empty. There was something I had been able to feel immediately upon reaching this planet, a tiny tug on my spark that made it pulse and swirl faster and brighter. The others felt it too; Barricade reacted like a canid on the hunt, twitching and straining at his proverbial leash as we approached the foreign human establishment in search for sufficient alternate forms. All too gleefully we tore the compound apart after my partner had chosen a disguise that suited him and I picked up the first one that I came across that was good enough. I am not picky. I will change my mask as often as I need to in order to achieve my goals._

_Barricade was a little pickier. At the time, the irony of choosing the alt. that he did was lost upon the both of us, but with a few minutes to look into it, he laughed. He had chosen a form that the local dominant species, _homo sapiens,_ trusted and hated both. I didn't care outside of the fact that in selecting what he did we had free run of the country's thoroughfares. _

_But still, that ache, that pull had always been there, present in both of us at a constant rate. Reports with the others who had landed confirmed it: the Allspark was on Earth. We could sense it._

_But after the battle at the dam … I did not feel it. The spot that the drive to find it had occupied was empty, free of that energy that I knew so well because it gave me life. It gave us all life. _

_And so I worried. Hours passed by in stillness and silence but I was ever patient, willing to wait for as long as I had to while repairs finished themselves. I was becoming dangerously low on energy when I was finally fit enough to get up and move about. Ten hours had gone by and still the majority of my head was gone. My processor had regenerated as well as some of my helmet and one eyestalk, but it had become apparent to me that my restoration processes were slower than they had been in thousands of years. _

_It cemented my suspicion that the Allspark had been destroyed. _

_My software was damaged and semi-dysfunctional; my comm. systems were still nonoperational; most of my hardware was offline. But it was enough. I fled the dam after raping an abandoned car of its battery power and headed for the last position I saw Barricade: Tranquility._

_Along the way I continued self-repairs and amused myself with how daftly stupid the insects were. None of them noticed when I so much as _boarded a bus_ one early morning and took refuge beneath a seat in the back. Sillysilly insects, stupid little cockroaches._

_Barricade was not in Tranquility. Some seventy-two hours and seven vehicle batteries later, I was in better shape but still I could not send out signals or transmissions. This bothered me greatly; I was adept at my own repairs, and yet the correct systems refused to come online. The best I could do was emit a cryptic burst of static that served no purpose but to perhaps attract unwanted Autobot attention. I could, however, still hack into and listen to other signals._

_That is how I found out about Mission City. _

_I eavesdrop on a conversation between the Autobot leader and his ancient medic over what they think is private link. They speak of the Witwicky boy and some Banes child; they chat almost nonchalantly over their victories against my now deceased comrades. A single phrase sends dead, bitter ice into my spark:_

"Barricade collided with an overpass pillar at high speeds, Prime. Ironhide forced him off of the road on the way to Mission. It is doubtful he could have survived a headlong impact of that magnitude."

_So B-Barricade is dead, I muse. No faithful partner to work with and find shelter in. I am on my own._

"I understand your reasoning," _comes the deeper, hushed voice of Optimus Prime himself_. "But Bumblebee has seen him on long distance radar heading towards the East Coast. He has assured me that it is him and has gone to perform reconnaissance. I received a report just this morning that Barricade is very much alive and well in the East. Last known track he was heading towards Minnesota."

_Minnesota._

"How far away is Bumblebee?"

"Barricade has a three-day headstart and official colors going for him."

_Two thousand miles away._

_Without bothering to listen to the end of the conversation I leap into action and begin heading northeast._

* * *

Surprise. :)


	14. Truth

Chapter XIV

Truth

By: The Feesh

_This holiday fuckin' sucks. _

There would be no denying the fact that Michael James Romano was lonely. In but the company of David Letterman on Mike's pathetic 32 inch television set, the mechanic sat at his dining room table over a dingy cigarette tray and a bottle. The whiskey gleamed amber as the dim light from the kitchen caught it just right, making it look like molten honey; quite pretty, really. Glancing at the window, Romano threw the shot glass at the wall and listened to it clatter to the floor.

Somewhere outside, a cat howled.

A car alarm went off.

One of his neighbors was screaming at the kids.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas."

Beverly had Nicholas for Christmas, naturally; she never allowed the young boy to spend the holidays with his father. _Juss wit' that asshole who thinks he can raise my kid._ Worn fingers threaded through dark, tangled hair and he winced as his shoulder throbbed. The gunshot wound had healed nicely since the heavy summer night it was administered, but the cold was not kind to it. Snow was falling by the foot and Romano new that by tomorrow morning, it would be a beautiful white Christmas.

"I'm… dreamin' ovva white…"

"—_get that fuckin' kid ta shut up --"_

"…Christmas.."

"—_it isn't his fault, Aaron!"_

"Juss like th' ones I used ta…. Wouldja assholes pipe down?" Romano hollered at the wall to his left. "It's fuckin' Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake! Man, screw this shit."

Not caring in the least that he'd had a few drinks, the greasemonkey got up and grabbed his coat, keys, a fresh pack of cigarettes and headed out the door. Behind dingy doors and walls, songs of holiday cheer rose despite the late hour, and Michael scowled at the sound of happy people inside; people with their families. Romano's parents were dead and his sister hadn't spoken to him in ten years, there was really very little for the New York man to be jolly about. Braving the snow, ice, wind, and holiday drivers, he turned the way he always went and began to walk down the sidewalk.

If he were any more inebriated, he would have broken his tailbone, if not his skull, on the icy path. Luckily for him, Romano had only swallowed enough of the whiskey to give him a warm feeling and to make him forget about the cold, if not his woes. Looking around, the New Yorker realized how dreary his town usually was, and how winter tended to spruce it up; the salt trucks had yet to run, so the street glittered with pristine white. Ice hung from metal balconies and glistened in the sallow glow of yellow street lamps while fragile flakes, no two the same, fell lazily from the darkened sky. The normal drag gray of New York City was banished in a single season if one looked out of their window at the right time.

In just a few hours, the trucks would come and dump salt. Cars would drive over it and smash the snow into partly melted mud and everything would become wet and brown with half frozen city filth. It would look like New York again, ugly and full of hard character, come the Christmas dawn.

Part of him wished he could take a picture, to capture the beauty as it stood just in that moment, but he held no camera within his possession and had always been a poor photographer to boot. Romano supposed there would be other wintry nights he could emerge from his little apartment when the snow was freshly fallen to see it all over again.

It happened every year.

Why had he not noticed it before?

His knees struck something ice cold and solid, and this time, Michael hit the ground with a muted grunt and all the grace of a sack of potatoes in a coat. With mild annoyance, he realized that not only had he spaced out long enough to wind up standing in front of Greasemonkey's Garage, he had also meandered off of the sidewalk and into the parking zone in the street. He had run knees-first into a snow-covered car.

Glowering at the car as if the inanimate thing had leapt out in front of him, Mike Romano grumbled and slipped back onto the sidewalk, brushing his coat off as he continued on his way. Something caught his attention, and he stopped to turn partially to get a second look at the vehicle he had walked into. It was completely shrouded in snow, aside from the rocker panels. He thought the doors looked white.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Romano walked back over to it and brushed the snow off of the passenger side door.

The word 'POLICE' glared back at him in reflective lettering.

"I _was_ recharging, you know."

With a less than dignified cry, the mechanic stumbled backwards over the curb and wound up on his derriere in the snow. "What th' shit, yer an asshole, man. Leavin' town without word then scarin' a man like dat. Where ya been?" Decidedly in good nature, he clapped a hand against the snow-covered fender as one might do to the shoulder of an old friend.

"Do not touch me."

_Ehehe.. _"Right, right, no problem." Uncomfortable silence. ".. So, ah, you like it under all that snow, 'r somethin'?"

"No."

"Then why not get it off?"

"Does it appear to you, fleshbag, that I possess hands?"

"No?"

"Well then."

_Helluva reunion._

Barricade had always been an… odd one. Then again, if one had any right to judge the oddity of a being, Mike was certain he'd wind up in the loony bin for telling people he had a car for a friend. Or a car that was kind of a friend. A friend that liked to insult him a lot?

"Ya wanna…ya wanna come in 'r something?" the greasemonkey tried tentatively, motioning to the garage. "Fuckin' freezin' out here, 'n it's Christmas 'n shit."

Barricade shift on his shocks; snow fell out of where it had collected in the depression below his taillights. "What standing does the current greed-spouted holiday have in your question?"

That was awkward. "I dunno. Jus' figured no one ought ta have to be out on the curb covered in snow on Christmas Eve."

The answer, for all its honesty, seemed to appease the Saleen. Despite the fact that the temperatures were close to the zero mark, the gargantuan eight-cylinder engine beneath the precipitation-covered hood rumbled to life without a hitch and Barricade shook, vibrating on his tires hard enough for the majority of the snow to simply slide off. Michael never thought he would live to see a car talk, much less do…that, but he had long accepted that his life was no longer normal and was unconcerned as he unlocked the office door and went inside.

The heat had been turned off for the holidays, leaving the dark space chilly and not much warmer than the air outside. The New Yorker moved past brightly colored posters on gray painted brick walls, dimmed by the time, pushed open the 'employees only' entrance into the garage itself. There, it was bitingly cold, a condition exacerbated by the clean concrete flooring and relatively poor insulation. Romano moved to the last stall and keyed the door to slide upwards, then flipped the switch to the giant space heater nestled in the ceiling. The building the garage was settled in was old, and his employees never ceased their bitching about the morning cold when New York City's temperature began to drop.

The police interceptor pulled in, all lights dark, and parked.

Mike watched him as the rickety stall door closed. "Here, know what? Lemme.."

The Saleen watched the mechanic soundlessly as he dug through drawers, apparently looking for something. It wasn't that difficult to surmise why Romano seemed to want his company so bad; the weeks leading up to December 25th seemed to bring out the worst in the fleshbags, and unless the New York mechanic was alone for the holidays, it seemed less than logical for Romano to have been out walking in the middle of the night in below freezing conditions.

Fleshling holidays had no standing with him; come to think of it, neither did the old Cybertronian ones. Barricade did not celebrate anything, be it his creation day or any other such reason to be festive. He had no reason, and what with the war having annihilated most of the Cybertronian population with no hope of rebuilding their numbers –

Romano moved back over to him, holding something in his hands that upon closer inspection revealed itself to be an ice scraper. Using the stiff bristle-brush on the back of it, Mike began to sweep the remaining snow from the Mustang's form and Barricade, for once, neither complained nor let loose a snide remark. The human was unaware of the interceptor's dermo-sensors keening to micro sensitivity at the touch.

"So, ah," the greasemonkey started as he worked on removing the ice from the S281's windshield. "Where ya been? Ain't seen ya around since summertime."

Barricade seemed to shift again, and the _crunch-snap_ of ice breaking sounded off as he opened his doors marginally to loose the crystals built up around the seams. "Situation dictated that I had to lay low, and stay away from New York City."

"Like what?"

_Nosey little carbonmonkey._ "Someone undesirable was wishing my company for objectionable things."

The tone of the police car's voice told Michael that he didn't want to go into it any further than that. "Ah. Well, uh, good ta see ya again."

"…Yes." After a short silence between the two, Barricade prompted, "The wound has healed nicely, I see."

"Yeah it has—wait, how'd you know that?" Even though the Saleen didn't move, the air around him seemed to make him smirk. "… Nevermind. But yeah, s'fine, after some physical therapy."

Romano tossed the ice scraper/snow brush aside and sat down, leaning back against Barricade's front left wheel once the interceptor was free of snow and back to his usual spotless self. Well, relatively spotless. The mechanic couldn't do anything about the half frozen salt/ice muck that was stuck inside Barricade's wheel wells and on his underside, testimony to the fact that he had been doing some extensive driving on salted roads. The dirty stalactites of filth would melt and fall off on their own, for the most part.

Still, Mike found himself bothering one that was frozen onto the underneath of Barricade's front fascia. "You rust, 'r anything?" he asked as he broke the icicle of city grime off and lobbed it away.

"No."

"…Salt uncomfortable 'r anything?"

"Yes."

_Short as ever._ _At least it's warmin' up in this damn place._ "Anythin' I can do 'bout it?"

"Anything you would do would be a fruitless and futile waste of time," Barricade rasped, his voice sharp and gravelly in Mike's human ears. "I am not one of your simplistic fleshbag vehicles and I do not require _pampering_ to survive."

Romano's job had always been sort of a thankless one. "Yeah, so what th' hell are ya then?"

Despite the obvious fact that the Saleen had driven right into that one, Barricade was still caught off guard by the sudden question. The mechanic knew he was an alien, as was revealed the last time the query had come up, but evidently he was unsatisfied with the answer. The New Yorker and his spawn had proven to be trustworthy thus far with his secrets…

"Stand up, and move to the middle of the room."

This order puzzled the mechanic, but Romano got up and did as asked. He stood beneath the old-style space heater, looking up at the orange-hot coils for a moment before shedding his coat and focusing once more on the intelligent car that he had first laid eyes on some six months prior.

Barricade surmised that there was enough room. The ceiling was fourteen feet high, only two feet short of his full standing height (unless one counted his shouldermounts and doorwings, which gave him an extra three feet); plenty of room to unfold and hunch, if not stand.

It had been too long since he had spent any length of time in his natural form, anyway.

Like a flashback, the interceptor suddenly began to shift and change among a symphony riot of turning gears and clanking metal. Its metal back broke and twisted and produced claws, _arms_ as Mike's shocked mind began to realize – this was what Barricade had tried to do before. As the Saleen took a shape wholly unlike the sleek, speed-oriented form, Mike stumbled back a step and watched with a slack jaw and wide eyes.

Barricade stood and folded his doorwings down; razor-talons catching the garage lights and making them gleam as he turned glowing eyes alight with fire, like dying embers smoldering in a pit, upon the steadfastly shocked and delightfully terrified human being.

* * *

_I'm back. :)_


	15. It Just Stood Up

Chapter XV

It Just Stood Up

By: The Feesh

As with anything, human coolness and sanity had its limits. The moment the Saleen police interceptor unfolded like some perversion of an origami masterpiece and stood up, it was safe to say that Michael James Romano lost any and all semblances of his.

"….Holy _shit!_"

Barricade was satisfied enough at the moment to watch his monkey of interest back hastily away from him and note with some irritation how low the ceilings were. The New Yorker's back met the brick wall, and he dumbly felt around for anything he could grab while keeping his deer like sights locked firmly on the two legged monstrosity standing in his garage. At least he thought it was two legged. _One..two..three…..fuck it!_

"Hold up, now! What th' fuck izzis?" he asked with a definite tremor to his voice, hands coming up with a baseball bat he kept in the garage. "What the fuck are ya?"

"We have been over that already, you bird brained carbon collection," Barricade responded with some tartness.

Mike swallowed. "S-so yer an alien. An' a robot." After a short pause, he continued: "Wasn't it somethin' like robots I heard that laid the smackdown in that city 'cross the country? California?"

"Yes."

"But that was a fraud! Someone made it up."

"Evidently not, considering the point that I was involved in that battle." The Decepticon chose to merely smile rather than elaborate on _which side_ he had been on… the mechanic had no need to possess that knowledge yet.

The grin, so full of razors and knives, sent a shiver down the human's spine and made his sweat go cold despite the heat of the coils above. "B-b-but—"

"Do not ask questions," instructed Barricade, lifting one long talon to make his point. "You will get no answers. Not yet. Not this early in the game."

"The ga—"

"Michael, surely you realize the level of trust I have given you to even so much as _show you_ my natural form. I do not expect my risk to be proven a mistake." Double rows of backwards curving teeth showed in a gesture that was most certainly not an amicable one. "Am I correct in my assumption, Michael Romano?"

His grip on the handle of the Louisville Slugger was as white-knuckled as it could get. "Ain't..ain't gonna say nothin'."

"Good. Then put down the bat before I break it."

"Break it? This is a freakin' Louisville Slugger. You can't—"

_SNAPcrunch_.

"..Break… it.."

The Saleen dropped the two pieces of the bat. "Can't I?"

It was too much to take in. The mechanic slid to a seated position with his back against the cold wall and just stared at his rather unique guest. Unlike the smooth, speed-bred Mustang S281, this being, this _creature_ was bereft of fine curves and covered instead with layered armor and jagged spikes. Even the edges of its – _his_ – skin looked to have been sharpened. Barricade's face was beyond inhuman; proud dual headcrests gave way to a monstrous face set like something out of a nightmare, with four laser like eyes and a jaw built like a bear trap. Beneath that, he merely _oozed_ power and authority, from headlights that were situated in his massive chest down to the blade-sharp talons that capped his armored fingers.

Michael looked at himself comparatively, humbled. They both shared so many similarities and yet the differences were staggering. Two legs and two arms, a mouth, eyes…but Barricade appeared to have no nose, and certainly seemed devoid of, upon a quick look, any sort of organs that might define his gender. Soft, supple human skin versus unyielding knives and metal; the human male certainly felt self-effacing in the presence of such an imposing creature.

"What _are_ you?" he whispered.

"Some alien races referred to us as 'Transformers'. It rings a certain truth."

Romano stood up slowly, looking up at the by far taller form of the beast dressed in black. His eyes lingered over the reflective lettering on white panels that spelled a word most associated with safety, with speeding tickets and annoyance, but still with safety at it's heart. It was a word that meant defense, having a hero when you need one, and someone to give you a kick to the ass when you did something stupid. Barricade did not seem to fit into those descriptions. He was vile, he was mean, he was casually insulting and threatening … very much like so many New Yorkers Michael knew. That thought made the giant in his garage somewhat less daunting.

Just enough, in fact, for the greasemonkey to slowly step forward in frightened curiosity. Barricade watched closely, shifting, as Michael walked around him in a slow but cautiously respectful circle, keeping his distance but displaying an intense wonder for what he was seeing. Barricade's body was like a mosaic, a sculpture made of ragged pieces of iron and junkyard scraps set to form all the basic limbs a creature required for bipedal survival. Slapped on at the very end, it seemed, of the artist's masterpiece of death was the evidence of his other form, the formidable Saleen Mustang police interceptor.

"Why… why police? Why ya mock tha police?"

Barricade grunted. "Your so-called police are a mockery in and of themselves, but I suspect that is not the answer you are looking for. Taking the form such as the one I have chosen was merely an admittedly ironic means to an end. No one looks at a police car twice."

"I guess 'dat makes sense," the bewildered mechanic replied. After a moment, another question arose, or rather, a curiosity. "…Y' are a 'he', ain'tcha?"

"That is what I am called, yes."

"…So where's yer…yannow…"

The silence and the stare Mike received told him that Barricade did not, in fact, have the foggiest clue what he was talking about.

"…Yer.. yannow.. bits."

A blink. "My what?"

"Aw, c'mon man. The twig 'n cherries, the sausage and meatballs!"

"…That is truly vulgar and revolting. I have none."

Romano opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short. "What now?"

"I said that I have none. My species possesses no means by which to physically reproduce, and thus, I have no gender," the mech clarified. Michael noted he thought Barricade was beginning to look a mite bit annoyed.

The New Yorker tilted his head and asked, "So why ya call yerself a 'he'?"

To which the Cybertronian responded: "It is a little less degrading than 'it', now isn't it?"

Mike Romano went silent at that, watching his current guest with his back against the wall. "Why… why are ya here? On Earth?"

Barricade chuckled, tilting his helm to side. "Many reasons. None of which are appropriate at the moment to reveal."

A thought occurred to the human. "It ain't... an invasion, izzit?" Flashes of Hollywood tales and movies crossed his mind. _Shit and chips, that would suck._

"No. You would not be so fortunate…"

The mech's skin seemed to ripple briefly, a motion that caught Michael's attention like a moth to the sight of flame. Barricade decided that he had spent long enough on two feet and dropped back into alternate form, settling smoothly into the glossy black and white form of the five-hundred-fifty horsepower road monster that made regular Mustang GT's look like Hondas. Mike relaxed in the more familiar presence, wiping his face off. What a night…

"There's a couch in the office. I think.. I'mma just turn in for the night. You stickin' around?" he asked.

"No, I would much rather go sit out on the curb at the mercy of winter," the interceptor grumbled sardonically.

"Right. See you in the morning."

_And so you shall._

_

* * *

_

_Author's Note: _

_So here we are. Chapter 16 is nearly finished, and will be up soon, but in the meantime, visit my site! Survival: Earth is an open-to-every-level RPG site based on the 2007 Movie and beyond. With the coming of the 2009 movie an entire slew of new canon characters are now available for play! _

http:// survivalearth . yuku. com/

_Just remove the spaces._


	16. Hunter the Hunted

Chapter XVI

Hunter the Hunted

By: The Feesh

The simple fact that they had waited for him was astonishing. That they had been able to find him in the gigantic city of New York was baffling. That they had been able to corner him, as if planned so perfectly, in an abandoned underground parking lot three levels down … it was all so perfectly _astounding_.

In a closed space, Barricade had no chance. The only advantage over the Autobots he held was the fact that he and Bumblebee were the only ones short enough to move about the tiny space with even some amount of freedom, and as such, the shock trooper himself dealt out quite a bit of damage to his larger attackers. Prime, Ratchet, and Ironhide blocked off the exits and Bumblebee harassed him, and Barricade took every opportunity to viciously assault the Camaro who was nipping on his heels so doggedly. There had to be a way out…

They weren't shooting to kill him, that much was obvious. Ironhide's cannon settings were at their lowest, Prime and Ratchet didn't fire and Bumblebee rarely used his cannon at all. The moronic Autobots were still keeping to their code of honor and meant to capture him alive. _I will not be their prisoner. I will not._

Barricade dove to the left and pressed his back to a support pillar, snarling, weapons systems humming. He only had two missiles left, having planted the other four into the three largest Autobots with, regrettably, not as much damage as he had hoped. Ratchet was built like a tank, Ironhide lived up to his damn name and had thicker skin than Barricade anticipated, and Prime had avoided the two missiles entirely. _They waited for months for this…_

How was that possible? The Decepticon had kept to himself during his time away from New York, and he had neither seen nor smelled even a hint of the Autobot Elites while he was gone. _How _did they _know?_

_They planned this. Down to the finest detail_.

Barricade was the last known Decepticon threat on the planet. They wanted him caged, out of service, and unable to harm anyone else.

This time they were not wasting their time with pleas and requests. This time they were doing it by force.

_Not if I have any words to say about it._ The interceptor's mind twisted and whirled, as it was prone to doing, systematically going over his options. His path to escape was cut off, and there was a certain saying that had floated around in the Decepticon ranks: _if the door is blocked, make a window. Two missiles left. Make them count. _

Bumblebee advanced from behind and Barricade turned, releasing his gyroflails with a vicious sound. Ironhide's cannons went off and as he swung, the shocktrooper felt armor scorch beneath his left arm, but was lucky enough to avoid the impact entirely. He drove the Camaro back a calculated one hundred feet from the other three, flails arching through the air with a terrifying grace and speed until he had Bumblebee precisely where he wanted that little yellow motherfu—

For a full split second after the brutal impact, the only thing Barricade was aware of was the fact that he was face down on the cracked concrete floor. At the two-second mark, he became conscious of the searing, Primus forsaken _pain_ in his back and right shoulder and the sensation of his armor smoldering. With a growl, the shock trooper forced himself to focus and was on his feet by the count of four, just long enough for Ironhide to charge forward to follow up his initial higher-powered cannon shot. _Smelt-eater._

Barricade still had one good arm left, and with it, he slammed his weapon into the yellow Autobot's gut, sending him to the ground. By that point, one of his two remaining missiles was already singing through the air, not at a specific target, but instead, at the ceiling. Prime shouted for Ironhide to halt as concrete debris rained like the Plagues of Egypt, fire mixed with rock rather than hail and as the dust cleared, the Saleen's intention became plain. The hole was ten feet wide and a thirty-foot diameter around it threatened to crumble and cave in at any moment, but it was big enough, and it would do. _Window made_.

Like a mental checklist, Barricade counted down the steps as he loosed his left flail and swung it in an arch upwards, through the hole he'd created in the ceiling. With a yank that was far more calculated than it looked (he needed just the correct amount of force applied at the perfect angle in order to succeed) he jammed the whirling blades into a concrete pillar on the second level, deep enough to make them stick. The chains retracted, pulling him up.

But, before he went…

"You lose, motherfuckers!"

The second, and last, shoulder-mounted missile came into play, and this time it's target was just as solid. Bumblebee ducked down as the projectile flew at him and impacted with finality with the cement pillar holding up the less than unyielding damaged ceiling above him, and by the time he realized that part of the second level was coming down on him, the shocktrooper had already made good his escape through his improvised exit route.

Prime scowled. "Ironhide! After him! Ratchet, you're with me."

The Autobot weapons specialist nodded and left the medic and his leader to dig Bumblebee out. He knew a bit of rubble would not be the tenacious scout's downfall and thus focused only on his task at hand as he jogged up the ramp. He could hear Barricade's engine and his exhaust system as he exploded onto the first level, surely making a beeline for that sun-soaked archway to freedom. Or so he thought. Ironhide's cannons charged.

It was a thing unexpected, when the road detonated underneath his tires.

Barricade skidded wildly with the sudden upheaval of the very asphalt beneath him, fishtailing and slamming his back quarters against the mouth of the garage entrance as he left it. The force sent him spinning madly into busy Bronx traffic as the road behind him crumbled and collapsed. Horns went off and brakes slammed but the efforts went unheeded by the laws of physics and motion and the interceptor slammed nose first into a taxi's passenger door, immediately followed by the prow of yet another Crown Victoria cab swerving into the same back quarter panel that had already seen damage.

Lights and sirens flicking to life, Barricade ignored the highly, highly irate swear words being flung his way and bulldozed his way through traffic. He did not care where they were going or where they had to be, so long as the fleshlings moved out of his way as they were supposed to. _He_ had a place to be that was far, far more important than any engagement any insect in New York held, aside perhaps from one.

* * *

"Seeya later, Manny."

"Lata, Mike. Hey, Bugsy, you comin'?"

"Beer and girls. Hm. Lemme think…Later Mike!"

_Yeah yeah, beat it, ya goons. They always get th' damn fun. _

Romano watched Bugsy and Manny leave, trailing after Bubba and Tyson. The four of them, being senior employees, usually stuck around to clean, letting the younger mechanics head out on time. It was merely how things went in Greasemonkey's Garage. Mike double checked the locks on the garage doors and made his way back to a late project, listening to the din of horns and swear words outside as cars clogged the roadways like bad arteries.

With a look of irritated befuddlement, the mechanic stared at the open engine bay of his Honda, willing it to reveal its secrets and tell him why it refused to start. Everything checked out according to his eyes; starter was good, alternator turned, battery, fuses… but still the damned evil beast snubbed his every attempt at running it. The New Yorker pondered just selling the stupid thing for parts, but he kept at it, lifting the car onto a hoist and digging around underneath it. He'd try again, maybe for a few more hours.

* * *

Optimus Prime burst out of an alleyway in all of his chromed, eighteen-wheeler glory and Barricade swerved nimbly to avoid him. He cut across heavy-but-thinning traffic and ran a red light, cutting to the left, skidding across the intersection much to the peril of several cars who locked their brakes and slid to avoid him. The Saleen was vaguely aware of the clatter he left behind as a Jeep collided with a New York City yellow cab.

The Camaro was nowhere to been seen. _Perhaps his armor did not hold up quite so well,_ Barricade thought as he flew down the street, strobes flashing and siren on emergency pulse. Cars did their best to get out of his way, and when they couldn't he took to the sidewalk to avoid being jammed up. He could _not_ afford to stop. The Decepticon was not sure how his Autobot pursuers were navigating the roads with such seeming ease, but somehow they just kept getting ahead of him. They were determined this time, and Barricade got the distinct feeling that they did not have a leash in mind for him this round. A cage awaited him out west.

He'd never done very well behind bars.

Taking a massive risk, Barricade locked his brakes and skidded to the side, taking to his natural form and rocketing through a tiny alley at a dead run. It was not the smartest thing, but the United States government had done a bang up job shutting everyone up in Mission City. If anyone happened to even notice him that split second before he careened into the alley, the FBI would catch onto it, and those people would never utter another word.

Traffic stopped in its tracks in a chorus of rubber on asphalt as the Saleen Mustang flew back out onto the road –

_Crunch._

Barricade twitched and swerved into oncoming traffic, recovering in time to see a Lexus flying at him, horn blowing. Something was wrong. He took a swift left at a yellow light and headed east, taking the roundabout way to –

_Pop_.

This time he darted right, into the rear quarter panel of a Toyota, sending it lurching left across three lanes and into the nose of a Tahoe going in the opposite direction. Pain ebbed from a center point, but it was deeper. It was under fresh wounds, buried beneath layers of armor and components.

_Not now._

_

* * *

  
_

"Aw, c'mon you sonuva bitch, work for me."

It was two in the morning. The Honda had thus far managed to prevail in its battle against the one who held its keys. Fortunately, Romano had one last battle tactic up his sleeve. He hopped out of the small gas-saver and went over to the car hoist controls, levering the one-ton beast into the air. The mechanic had a hunch, and it was a hunch he intended to follow even if he had to pull the entire engine out of the bay in order to do so.

Of course, even the best-laid plans could be touched by Murphy's Law and go awry.

The greasemonkey jumped with a yelp as something slammed into the bay door, making the entire garage shudder. The lights flickered for a moment above him, making Romano's world a dance floor of flashing strobe motions until they settled into their usual function, passively irate at the assault against their power source. Mike dove out from under the Honda as it shuddered on the hoist, but thankfully, the machine held.

"Th' _fuck_ wuzzat?!" he cried, eyes wide as he scrambled to his feet.

Something was _outside_.

He could hear it. The heavy but irregular sound of _footsteps_ slamming through the snow in addition to the clicking, whirring, _thudding_ that sounded like something alive, something _huge_ but alive right to the exterior of his garage. The building shuddered once more, though to a lesser degree as something impacted with the icy ground outside. A few hundred possibilities went through the mechanics mind, followed by scenarios and mental movies that all seemed to end in his bloody, screaming death.

_Is it Barricade?_

_What if it is?_

_What if it isn't?_

_Are there more? Th' stupid trooper said there was others after him! _

_Oh shit! What if they're aft' me? What if they know I know? Oh shit! Oh damn! _

_What if they wanna talk? What if they wanna shoot? What if they wanna shoot me, make me talk, and then take my name? Fuck!_

Whatever, or whoever, it was, it was still outside and the New York greasemonkey found himself in the face of a decision that could kill him. Thoughts of his son and his girlfriend flitted through his mind as he walked slowly for the lever that would lift the garage door. Romano's mind was whirling with images of his life, so much so that he didn't think to stick his head out of the office door to see, perhaps, what was standing outside. He was too wrapped up in the moment. Too hellbent on seeing what his destiny would hold for him: death, or life?

Michael couldn't seem to move any faster than his current pace, which reflected molasses at Christmas time as he reached for the lever, gripped it, and pulled.

* * *

_Visit my site! Survival: Earth is an open-to-every-level RPG site based on the 2007 Movie and beyond. With the coming of the 2009 movie an entire slew of new canon characters are now available for play! _

http:// survivalearth . yuku. com/

_Just remove the spaces._

_ALSO! Fanfiction dot net has changed its catagories. It now is separated into two catagories for Transformers, those appropriate for G1, Beast Wars, Beast Machines and the like, and then those approproate for Movieverse. Collision will be moved at a time in the future to the correct catagory. This should not effect any story alerts, I don't think, but in case it does I wanted to ensure you all had ample notice. I may not move it until it's finished, just in case. _

_Have a great day, guys! Cheers from Kentucky!  
_


	17. Safehaven

Chapter XVII

Safehaven

By, The Feesh

Most people learn to listen to their gut instinct when it told them to do something urgent. All day long, Michael had been unable to shake the feeling that he should have stayed in bed that morning.

"_Barricade?!_"

The grease monkey jumped backwards as the black and white mechanoid lurched forward, stumbling on all fours, seemingly unable to stay upright. Mike would be the first to admit that he knew absolutely nothing about the razor sharp mosaic that was Barricade's body, but even he could tell that something was horribly wrong. Fluids gushed in almost rhythmic beats from between terrible jaws, timed as if to the steady thrum of music that nobody could hear. Gaping, burning wounds laid open across his form, making the human's nose wrinkle against the caustic, bitter ozone scent of sizzling circuitry and melting plastic. It was a scene taken out of a Stephen King novel, and yet, Romano couldn't force himself to run the other way.

The sudden snap of cold brought him out of his state of shock. "What the fu- man! Get in here! What happened?"

Barricade didn't respond. All too eagerly, even in his mind, he dropped down to his elbows and crawled, feeling more than seeing the cold cement floor replace the stark ice beneath his hands and belly. He wasted no energy in moving about once he was inside; instead, he threw himself down on his side, a heaped, wounded beast without shelter aside from where he was right now. Vaguely, he was aware that the insect was babbling, trying to get him to talk, but it all seemed so very far away that it didn't matter. It was like Michael was speaking to him from underwater.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!_ the New Yorker thought as his rather unusual friend remained unresponsive. Quickly, he lowered the garage door to keep prying eyes from peering inward and, of course, to try and keep the heat in. Perhaps it would help Barricade stay awake, although with injuries like that, what little Mike knew about human physiology stated he probably wouldn't. Still, the damned fuzz car was hardly human. But there was damage on that alien body that Romano recognized and could possibly…

He was moving based on guesses about Barricade's anatomy. Mike dragged up a stool, picked up the tools he thought he'd need and scooted back over to the downed and certainly less-than-conscious alien. Without so much thought (although he was smart enough to think to put on leather gloves in the case that some or all of Barricade's fluids were corrosive), he set to work, mopping up blood with shop rags first so that he could see a bit more clearly. At least, he figured it was blood. Maybe. He couldn't fathom why he felt so compelled, why his hands moved as if on their own to search out pipes and tubes that had been torn and were bleeding. Why did he _need_ to dip his digits into the gaping, red-hot injuries and risk, surely, limb removal if the Saleen jerked the wrong way? Why was it _not an option_ that he use pliers and twist the bleeders shut, simply because it was the least he could do?

It was a weird revelation to think of Barricade as a true and honest friend. _He saved my life. Maybe I c'n save his stupid ass from whatever's after 'im._

As he worked, Romano had a thought and picked up his cell phone, dialing his right-hand man and holding the phone against his shoulder. "Bugsy. Yeah, man, I know. Listen: call th' guys an' tell them to not come to the shop tomorrow, prolly the day after. The garage's goddamn breakers fried an' I gotta have the electric company come out. D'ey're closed now, but I'll call 'em first thing. A'ight? Thanks, man."

Barricade didn't care for the sensation of someone touching him. He roused, just barely enough to let a growl rumble through his intimidating frame when Michael went back to closing up bleeders in an open chasm in his side. The mechanic grumbled and ignored the sound, to his credit, despite his heart and aspiration rate speeding up in direct response. He was starting to sweat out of nervousness, too.

The greasemonkey stepped back, eyes hunting for more injuries on the alien's front, none of which presented themselves. So why was the pinkish fluid still spreading in an ominous puddle underneath the downed form? Brow furrowing, he cursed the fact that Barricade had chosen to collapse with his back nearly flush against the wall, with not near enough room for Mike to squeeze his lean body in and stand, much less to hunch and work. Still, he had to at least see, so he leaned forward and spat out a curse. _'Course. A'COURSE d' worst of it all is where I can't get at it._

Something had hit Barricade hard from behind. Michael Romano grimaced a bit at the proximity of the alien's body, so unlike his own, and leaned forward a bit more, resting bloodied gloved hands on black armor. It was like tempting fate, leering over this brutal being's shoulder like this, but he had to somehow close those tubes…

"Hey. 'Ey, 'Cade. If you can hear me, I'mma…well I gotta get to that big hurt on yer back, yannow?"

Barricade didn't respond.

"Okay? So… dun.. Like.. Eat me or nothin'."

The next move would be risky, and Mike wasn't even sure if he should even pursue this fool's fancy. What if he was doing more harm than good? He didn't know and without the interceptor conscious enough to ask, he wouldn't know.

Still, the New York native leaned further onto the form until his hip was resting against the monster's gigantic side, and jumped, just slightly, sitting with his back to the wall on Barricade's ribcage, directly behind his arm. For a moment, Romano sat transfixed, studying the great, convoluted joint that made up his odd friend's shoulder, visible only under the arm where it was most vulnerable. _Vulnerable. Just like us. Only made a' metal and harder._ The robots clearly had weaknesses that were, to some extent, similar to that in humans. Joints, unarmored points, and particularly the throat, Mike realized as his eyes roved in morbid fascination; Barricade's throat was nearly completely unprotected. He could even see a tube leading from what appeared to be the back of that terrible maw down into the chest. _Food tube?_

Shoving his personal thoughts to the side, the greasemonkey leaned down again with his pliers, taking them to the gigantic wound in Barricade's shoulder blade. This warranted an immediate movement, a twitch and a rumble that for the Saleen surely was a halfhearted gesture, but for his human companion seemed like an earthquake. Biting back a surprised yelp, Romano hung on and waited until Barricade was still again before going back to work, growling a curse when his shirt got caught up on the sharp edges of the Mustangs exterior. Be it from nervousness or heat, he was sweating anyway. It wasn't so much of a loss when Mike took off his shirt and discarded it to the side without thought, reaching over the expanse of scorched, jagged metal to twist pipelines and tubes closed. He wasn't altogether sure what had hit the behemoth, but it was big and it hit him hard.

Michael didn't stop working until Barricade wasn't bleeding anymore. For a moment after twisting the last bleeder shut, he leaned there and paid intimate attention to everything around him. He was all too aware of how warm the cold metal felt under his skin, and how the aliens body pulsed with life that was as detectable as his own heart beat. Barricade didn't breathe, or so it seemed, but he took in and removed air through vent systems that Romano couldn't help but trace with his eyes, noting that air went in through vents in his collar area and back, and came out underneath his chest. It sounded slightly rhythmic, like some beast breathing down his neck. He was oh, so aware of how _big_ Barricade was…

A tiny _clink_ got the mechanic's attention. Looking down, he watched as his necklace dangled off of his neck and bounced against the plating of the alien's skin. The white and silver of the cross showed with sharp relief against the deep, dark pool of black that Barricade was covered in, and Romano thought with no certain amount of distraction that if he looked at the interceptor's skin close enough, it shimmered almost like glitter. He was never very religious, despite his familial background, but he always wore it, this bit of metal on a leather cord. He'd gotten it from his brother, not that he'd wanted it -- but when a police officer hands you a Catholic cross that he pulled from your dead older brother's neck as the cars burned in the background, you tend to keep it, and cherish it. At least, most would.

He sighed and slid carefully off of the unconscious black form. He didn't have much else to do but wait, and it wasn't like he could just … leave the poor guy there. The New Yorker had bought himself a little time, and thank God he didn't have any overnight projects whose owners would be coming to pick up in the morning. The garage was closed for business for a few days, it seemed. Not that Mike could afford it, but he would figure it out. He always did.

Romano was damn tired, though. Glancing up at the heat-coils in the ceiling, he shrugged the gloves off and discarded them, pondering. What the hell was he doing? He had a sixteen foot _alien_ in his garage. What if Barricade died? _What th' fuck will I do wit' him? Ain't like I can get the poor guy towed to a scrap yard. But it ain't like I can get caught witta dead alien in my car garage, neither. _Boy, what a damned right pickle he'd gotten himself into.

He wondered if Barricade had thought the same things when he'd gotten shot. Absently, Mike tossed a look at the scar on his shoulder and grumbled something profane under his breath, grabbing for his shirt. The sweat was starting to dry and it was making him cold. After a moment he found his jacket, too, and put that back on, sitting back down and staring at the black behemoth who was lying on is garage floor. To be honest, Romano wasn't even sure what time it was, only that it was after dark and he had been working on his damned Honda before his world screeched to such an utter halt.

The thing was dead anyway, he figured. But the grease monkey had a terrific desire to solve puzzles, and hated it when he couldn't at least figure out why a vehicle wouldn't cooperate. The Civic just puzzled him, and frustrated him. Mike sighed and resigned himself to dipping into savings enough to buy some other piece of crap to fix up and make run better. Hell, he'd nearly completely rebuilt the Honda from scratch.

_Or maybe I'll just walk. Dun exactly need a car in this damn slum. _

Mike Romano sat in the stillness of his garage, listening and looking. When empty, the building itself had a certain sound, a feel to it in the depths of the night when everyone around had gone to bed or were at the local bars instead of home. It was a buzzing, humming life that reverberated through the cold concrete, traveling up the metal riggings of the six car hoists present, seeping into the tools and the benches and desks. Now that Barricade was around, it sounded different, more tangible, because it was right there. Like the shop itself, the jagged metal creature thrummed and pulsed and _breathed_, fans whirring somewhere in his body to expel heat. Michael leaned forward, and then sat down directly in front of his guest, listening to the mechanical sound of life emanating from somewhere within Barricade's chest. There was something in there that almost sounded, if he perverted his thoughts, like a heartbeat. _If d' heart was made of metal, screws and cogs. _

He didn't really remember falling asleep, so it was strange to blink and see sunlight coming through the windows when a seeming moment before it was the dead of night. Snow fell slowly, languidly outside, as if comforting the New York City residents that it was safe, that no blizzard was coming to blanket the gritty city in white. Sleepily, the mechanic grumbled. _Snow lies_.

His body hated him for having slept on the hard concrete floor, evidenced by the crick in his neck and how his back screamed and every movement when he stood up. He glanced at Barricade, still the same as he had been, before stumbling to the waiting room for a cup of coffee. Romano felt his way through preparing the coffee maker, mostly asleep as he dumped the grounds and water into the machine and turned it on, listening to it hiss and grumble its hatred for his very soul. _I should get a new one. This thing is evil._

Black Death, as some called it, filled his cup as strong as tar and that was just the way the mechanic liked it. His father had told him that it grew hair on a boy's chest, and as such, he'd been drinking it since he was eleven. He was also a relatively hairy individual, but what could he say? He was a strong-blooded New York Italian. His great-grandfather had come from Venice! It wasn't his fault he practically grew fur. Romano was more of a zombie when he stumbled back into the garage, mug cradled lovingly in his hands, but he woke up awful fast when his eyes flicked over automatically to check on Barricade. He hadn't exactly expected to see nothing but a puddle of pinkish fluid with no body laying on it.

Adrenaline coursed into the New Yorker's system, waking him up with the kind of speed that espresso couldn't even begin to fathom. Barricade was gone. The two-and-a-half-ton metal alien was gone, without a trace, and without a sound. _How th' fuck?!_ Michael thought to himself as he set the mug down and stepped out into the garage. _There's no way! _

The car lift he was standing next to creaked ominously.

He swallowed, and despite not really wanting to, Romano looked up.

There he was, crouched on all fours, perched on the lift like some terrible, razor-sharp bird of prey. Perhaps more than anything, what worried Michael was the way Barricade was _staring_ at him, like something to be killed, squashed, and devoured like a lamb. If the New Yorker was any judge of sanity in his unusual friend, the alien looked downright off his rocker.

The snarl that rattled out of the Saleen's throat shook the mechanic out of his fear-driven stupor, and he threw his hands into the air pleadingly. "Hey, whoa! Whoa now, man, it's me. Yannow me, right?"

Barricade spat something back, something that Mike recognized as words, but not of his own language. The words sounded like a car that wouldn't start mashed together with gears that ground together. "What? Man, hey, lookit me, it's me, it's Mike! It's Mike! Yannow, greasemonkey? You're in the garage!" The mechanoid tilted his head. "'Member? The garage? Remember me? Ya came here last night, all tore ta shit. Remember?"

He did remember, now that Romano prodded him about it. Barricade growled, more out of irritation than anything, shaking his helm once before sliding down off of the hoist and to the floor. He ached, oh how he ached, but millennia of being mortally wounded more than once and surviving made him indifferent to it. His colleagues on the _Nemesis_ often called him _t'kinu_ -- a cockroach-like creature on a planet known as Pandu. Its blood was made of acid, it had thick armor, large mandibles, and didn't really need its head for anything important. Barricade himself had lost his head more than once, but the backup CPU encased in the compact armor of his left knee ensured he could function without it. Certainly, it was difficult with no eyes, and only minimal sensors, but…

Slowly, the Saleen sank back down to the cold concrete floor, teeth gritted as he rested his chin on one arm. The human present never took his eyes off of him, heart hammering within the bony confines of his muscled chest. It seemed as though the crisis of nearly getting killed was over, at least for now. "What was that all about?"

Barricade seemed about to answer, but he shut his jaws with a click and lifted his head sharply, focus moving somewhere else. He peered at the nearest garage door, metal frame suddenly tense as a guitar string. _It can't be … surely they do not know where…_

But then again, Bumblebee had to know. He knew about the garage, he knew about Michael, but it still struck him like a missile to the chest when first a black GMC Topkick, and then a brightly painted Peterbilt pulled into the lot and parked. The Saleen's armor bristled, rattling against each other like some snake that felt threatened, and Mike could only watch in confusion as the two trucks parked across four of his garage entrances. A green ambulance took up the fifth, and some sort of bright yellow coupe blocked the sixth. The way Barricade was acting …

_Oh shit. It's **them**_.

_**They're here.**_

_**

* * *

**_

_Hey there! Still not dead, I promise. Just slow going. Still plugging away, though. Come visit my website in the meantime! Everyone is welcome. Survival: Earth, a 2007-based TF RPG now with elements from Revenge of the Fallen! A whole slew of new canon characters are available for audition, including but not limited to Jetfire, Mudflap and Skids, Demolisher, Bumblebee (he needs a new player! Karen got eaten by college work and gave us the go-ahead to adopt him out again), Scalpel, Lazerbeak/Reedman, and more! Come check us out! _

http :// survivalearth .yuku. com/

_Just remove the spaces. _

_3 Feeshling**  
**_


	18. Cornered

Chapter XVIII

Cornered

By: The Feesh

The grease monkey found the speed at which his heart was racing to be disconcerting. Forcibly, he tried to quell the trembling in his hands, the violent heaving of his chest as he stared out of a window in garage door six. It was a Camaro. New, not even released yet, and bright yellow. The rest of the motley crew of vehicles were hodge podge and strangely colored to say the least, with the only normal one being the gigantic black pickup truck parked in door one's drive. The search and rescue Hummer was an indecent shade of eye-raping green, the semi tractor was flamboyantly fluorescent in it's color and choice of pattern, and the Camaro was as normal as that bright shade of yellow could possibly be.

There was no way anything human would pick paint like that.

"…Oh shit."

Romano jerked at the sound of the grating voice, realizing he had been staring at the foreign cars without breathing. His chest hurt, he vaguely realized.

Mike blinked furiously. "What do you mean, 'oh shit'?" he asked, voice thin and high sounding.

"They are the ones I have spoken about, who are after me," replied the interceptor, tones gone rougher than the usual gravel. "They will not stop until I am dead or in a cage."

"Why?" queried the human. "Why do they care? Ya haven't bothered me!"

That was a subject Barricade decided was best left unsaid. He merely shook his head, focusing once more on the intruders outside. This was a…terrible problem he now faced. Cornered like a dog, and injured in addition, it seemed he had no choice but to fight as well as he could when the situation came to blows.

The Autobots were in league with the humans, that much Barricade knew. Prime and his Elites would simply tell the United States government via whatever liaison they had that there was at present a direct threat to planetary safety in New York City, negotiations had failed, sorry for the mess but it's taken care of now. They would not hesitate to transform in order to terminate him swiftly and, probably, as painfully as possible. If Ironhide had anything to say about it, anyway. Then, the interceptor surmised, he would join his fallen comrades in the Laurentian Abyss and he would have to be content to rust in pieces at the bottom of the cold, unforgiving ocean. Pity that sort of irony, considering he was honestly (and perhaps unreasonably) terrified of deep water.

_How can I salvage this?_

The black and white mech shifted, rumbling subsonically in a fashion that Romano couldn't hear, but he could _feel_ it rattling the very marrow within his bones. Mike didn't care for the fact that the gigantic robot's fear was almost palpable, if he even dared to think he could judge what his strange friend was feeling. Still, the New Yorker studied Barricade, noting the way he just _stared_ with such intensity at the garage doors, quadruple optics flicking back and forth rapidly. _Like he's trapped. Cornered. Like a pit bull in a cage._

Abruptly, the alien shifted, metal plates exploding from where they had settled before and reshaping anew amidst a horrible grinding, the sound of tearing steel a horrific devil's symphony against Michael's ear drums. Barricade's transformation was rough at the absolute best, and it made the man's teeth clench.

His voice was even harsher. "Michael."

"Y-yeah?" the grease monkey ventured weakly.

"Do you want to help me?"

For the moment, Romano swallowed and only stared at the dinged, dented and paint scuffed interceptor that now sat in his garage. "Well, I d-dunno, man," he tried tentatively, voice shaking. "What about--"

"It is an affirmative or a negative answer question, carbon monkey," said Barricade. "and I will ask again: Do you wish to help me?"

It sure was a good question. The mechanic moved away from the jet black and white Mustang, leaning his back against the cold brick wall of the garage. The silence itself wanted to deafen him as thoughts raced through his mind, possibilities that all seemed to point at one inevitable conclusion: his life had changed, and was not going to go back. Mike was not the sharpest tool in the shed, and he certainly didn't pretend to be, but he understood what Barricade was really asking of him. Helping the Saleen Mustang could mean being on the run from the beings outside, forever. Would they come after him? They certainly seemed the type, since they had come after Barricade for seemingly nothing…

…Seemingly.

"I'll agree, if ya answer me one question," said the New Yorker.

Barricade snarled, a terrible, mechanical noise that wanted to make his companion's ears bleed. "I have no time for question games!"

"No," he replied, and shook his head. "I ain't doin' nothing', then!"

It was either this, or the Autobots tender mercies. "What, then? What do you want?"

Moment of truth. Honestly, Michael wasn't sure he wanted the answer. "Why are they comin' after ya? Really? Aliens or ain't, gotta be a reason."

Ah, such a good question. Such a question that Barricade did not want to answer, but his greatly advanced processes chewed the query over anyway. Flat out refusing to amuse the human would result in the human flat out refusing to help, and the Decepticon _needed_ Michael if he was going to get two steps beyond the garage and continue to live. The Autobots would not fire on him if the innocent little insect was present.

"…All right," he started, but Prime's voice cut through what he was about to say.

"Barricade. Come out and surrender and no weapons will be fired. Do you understand? Too many lives have been lost to frivolously terminate more now."

"I will not surrender for the honor of being caged in some skid plate of a cell, Prime!" he called back, before focusing on the rather quickly-aspirating car mechanic. "We are at war, you slagging skin sack! Their side, against my side, for millions upon millions of years, a conflict of which the intricacies cannot be explained over the course of thirty seconds. In short, it was brought here, and ended here. They won. I am the last of my team, stuck here with them dogging me every step of the way!"

Prime broke through again. "So be it, then."

Barricade started his engine. "That is why. Our kind-- my side, did not want…good things for this planet. That is why they want me. My leader and comrades are all dead, I am one mech! I cannot tell you the reasons why, not now, the story is too long!"

Mike shook his head. The mech sounded goddamned desperate, and he didn't like it. He didn't like the way it made him feel. "A-All right. Okay. What I gotta do?"

Barricade swung his driver's side door open. "Get in."

The Autobots all reacted in simultaneous motion, disregarding the humans about when the garage door opened. They stood after going through their various transformations, weapons at the ready, trained on the slick black prow of the Mustang Saleen Extreme as the door revealed it. Several seconds went by, as they all seemed to decide what the best course of action would be, and slowly, oh so carefully, Barricade began to move forward.

Optimus Prime's optics narrowed when he registered the human sitting in the car. _Hostage_. He had been through this sort of situation before; he knew what Barricade would ask, before the words even left his vocal unit.

"Autobots, foul Autobots," the interceptor started, his grating voice seeming to come from everywhere. "I am tired of being pursued. Here is how it will be: I will drive away and you will allow me to do so. You will not hunt me, you will not trail or track me. I want to make myself perfectly clear," and for this, the climax of his speech, he switched to their native tongue. "_If I so much as suspect I am being followed, there will be many, many innocent human lives forfeited to show for it, starting with him."_

"There will be anyway," snarled Ironhide, cannons humming.

The Saleen did not respond. Ratchet placed a hand on Ironhide's arm, shaking his head in a silent gesture that anyone who knew them would recognize. The medic wasn't exactly of a cold temperament himself, but he was far cooler than the very, very hot blooded Autobot gunner.

Optimus looked around, contemplating the quiet. The humans of this city had scattered as soon as they had all stood up, and he knew damn well there would be words for revealing themselves like this. Still, chairman Morshower and his team would take care of it, even if it seemed, disappointingly, that they would still have to worry over Barricade's presence in the country. He was tired of war; Prime wanted nothing more than to allow the Saleen his freedom, to leave him be and let him live as he chose. They all deserved that chance, but before Barricade got his, it needed to be ensured that he would go his own way without violence against the humans. No matter what Ironhide threatened, the elder leader had always intended on letting the interceptor go in the end, if it could be made possible.

"Very well, Barricade." The Peterbilt ignored the scathing look he received from the Topkick. "You will not be hunted. I do suggest, however, that you deposit the human as soon as you see fit to do so. Killing him will not make me consider leaving your freedom intact. Am I clear?"

"Clear as a tepid lake in spring. Move!"

He wanted out. He was entirely too aware of the multitudes of eyes on them. He could see how the insects nearby crouched and stared in silence and awe, and some in curiosity at the Autobots as they stood before them. More so he felt the burning, itching gaze of the wretches themselves as they seemed content to try and bore holes into his hide with the power of their optical alignments alone. Oh, how Barricade dearly wished he could just kill them all and go about his business…

This would do for now. Optimus stepped once to the left, leaving plenty of room for the Saleen to move out onto the street. All traffic had stopped, but Barricade was insistent and pushy, and the cab drivers and personal vehicles all got out of his way as he slunk his way through the traffic. All Optimus could do was watch, and none of his team blamed him for it. Not even Ironhide questioned it. If it had come down to a knock down, drag out fight between them and the Decepticon Elite, with nothing to lose but a life without freedom, Barricade would have died, and he would have been sure to take who knows how many city blocks with him. It was not worth the risk.

"Let us leave these people to their business. Autobots, transform and roll out."


	19. Roadtrips and Banjos

Collision XIX

Roadtrips and Banjos

By: The Feesh

Well, this was it. Ding, the bell rang, the horn blew, the flag waved. His life was fucking over and Mike knew it. He crossed the finished line the instant he got into that goddamned pretty alien car, and what was worse? The speed that Barricade flew down southbound I-95 told Romano that they'd not be turning around and going back any time soon. What would Nicky think? He was going to vanish off the face of the planet with seemingly no trace, a rogue, on the run from goddamned Martians while riding shotgun _with_ one of the loony motherfuckers.

He wasn't even paying attention to the white scenery as it flew by. "And then what? Huh? I disappear and what happens to Nicky? What happens to d' shop? What-"

"Michael…"

"-I mean ya can't just take a guy like dis, it leaves tracks, yannow? It-"

"_Michael_."

"-and then credit card purchases and some shit and all that-"

"_Cease your prattling or I will throw you out at ninety-seven miles-per, do you understand me, fleshling?_"

"…Yup. Loud'n clear."

Finally, a few minutes of blessed silence. Barricade shook his mental helm in relief that the panicked jabbering of his unfortunate passenger had ceased, even though in his logical mind he knew it was only a short matter of time before it started back up again. He was irritatingly aware of the greasmonkey's vitals; he could feel the steady, rapid hammering of Michael's heart as it beat and caused vibrations in his ribcage as well as a steady ripple across Barricade's radar network. The Saleen was fairly certain that if any more adrenaline got dumped into the human's system, he'd explode, or something equally as messy.

"You cannot go back," the interceptor started slowly, keeping the aggravation out of his vocal tones as much as possible. "because they will find you, and use you to get to me, in whatever way they see fit."

Mike swallowed. "But I thought they wanted ya because _ya_ wanted bad shit fer the planet!"

Thinking that over for a moment, the vehicle responded stoically. "And you think one human life in trade for how many they think I can take will stop them? You have aided me. You are stuck, at least for now, so be patient. In time, surely, you can return, perhaps when they have lost interest in me."

Perhaps he was over exaggerating such a smidge. It was all part of this twisted little game they had become entwined in, wasn't it? In reality, Barricade knew the Autobots might, keyword, _might_, have bothered the carbonmonkey in regards to his whereabouts but once convinced he didn't know, the interceptor knew they would leave him be. He could not afford to go back to that place, at least not yet, so for now he had an unfortunate organic passenger attempting to hyperventilate in his front seat.

Barricade gave the distinct impression that he was sighing in exasperation. "Fleshling, listen to me. I will be heading West, and at some point over the course of the next few days when I feel I have sufficient distance between my pursuers and myself, I will place you on a bus with a one way ticket back to New York City. You will never see me again, you will never hear from me again. This is sufficient, I trust. Yes?"

"You'll lemme go back?" the New York native queried hopefully.

"That is what I just said, is it not? I have no interest in long-term passengers, or hostages." _Not you, anyway._

Mike swallowed. "But I thought ya said it would be a while."

"I could keep you for a while, if you would like" purred the Saleen. "Or, you can relax, enjoy the ride, and receive a free Greyhound ride home from New Mexico. Yes?"

"Y-yeah, yes. Tha's fine. S'fine." Romano cleared his throat and took a moment to try and control his breathing. He was getting dizzy. "You got a horrible voice, you know 'dat?"

"Your lack of ability to think before you speak astounds me."

That earned a chuckle from the human winding down in his seat. Michael leaned back against the remarkably cool black leather, eyes closing in his attempt to relax. He wasn't prone to panicking, normally, but on a bad day the worst thing he had to worry about was a mugger shooting him. That was normal for the rough and tumble of New York City. Riding in the drivers seat of a car that was navigating by itself, on the run from giant robots from Mars … was not normal. That was not within his limits of what he didn't have to panic about.

Tentatively, the mechanic lifted a hand and placed it on the steering wheel, lightly, of course, so that when Barricade needed movement, he would not be impeded or annoyed. The leather wrapped wheel slid smoothly over his palm at every lane change as Barricade dodged through the sparse highway traffic, black liquid form slipping into the triple digits on his speedometer. It was so weird, sitting in the pilot seat and not having to do a thing. Casually, Romano noticed the utter absence of so much as dust marring the interior of the vehicle he was sitting in; there were no stains, no rips, the leather was perfect despite having been covered with blood some time back. Mike hadn't even been able to get it all out, and yet, it was gone. There wasn't an inkling of evidence that Barricade had ever even been sat in before, or spent more than an hour fresh off of the Saleen assembly line.

The human smoothed a hand over the black and silver dashboard, looking over tiny details of the Mustang's interior he had honestly not noticed before, despite his extensive work on Barricade. The short-throw shifter was encased in a black and white leather sheath, and had an 8-ball style handle that, amusingly enough, had the alien's name inscribed on the side. The Saleen drove himself, but there were keys in the ignition and dangling on those keys was a curious-looking silver symbol. _The same one that's on his police seal._

"'Ey, 'Cade?"

"My name is Barricade. What?"

"Eh, sorry," Mike scratched his head. "What's this?" He flicked the keychain in question as they tore around an eighteen-wheeler going far too slow.

"It is a keychain," grunted the interceptor.

"Well, I know 'dat. Izzat the symbol of some sports team on yer planet 'r somethin'?"

"Sports team," Barricade repeated, as if in irritation, or wonder. "Ah, no. Not hardly. It is the insignia worn by all members of the Decepticon faction." The laptop tucked under the passenger dashboard opened, showing on the screen a strange symbol that looked more like a face, than a bird-of-prey. "That is the Autobot insignia. Every war has at least two sides."

A light went off in Michael's head. "Oh. And your war was Decepticons versus Autobots, right?"

"That would be correct."

Curiosity killed the cat, but unfortunately, Romano didn't really heed that old saying. "What were ya fightin' for?"

The silence that filled the cab of the car made the grease monkey shift uncomfortably. Perhaps he'd gone too far, in asking an alien why he was at war, but after a moment or two longer Barricade replied in his rough, metallic tones. "We were in it for power, and to repopulate our planet. The Autobots saw it better to send our species into vile extinction than allow us access to the Allspark."

"Allspark?" Mike asked, taking the bait.

"The life-force of our planet. Without it, we cannot reproduce, and so with its destruction, we will perish."

"Can't … at all? There ain't no other way?"

Barricade thought about that, processor accessing files from his time as the _Nemesis_'s Chief of Science. Through the course of the war, the Science Division had been focused on one massive project. "There is one other way. But we lack the resources to pursue it, and all the hatchlings we created by it will also expire."

Mike Romano paused to chew that information over. "Hatchlings are yer … kids?"

"Yes."

"…You got any?"

The question caught Barricade completely off guard. He forgot to continue accelerating at the triple-digit rate he had been at, slowing to a far more tame 87 mph in his distraction, slinking into the fast lane to pass a sedan doing the speed limit. Traffic was becoming more of a problem as they closed in on Philadelphia. Barricade figured he would take the I-295 bypass around the Pennsylvania city.

"Yes, Michael. I do." His voice seemed reserved. "They are likely deactivated by now."

"…Oh." The human felt distinctly like an asshole. "War?"

"No. Lack of energy is killing the hatchlings before they even get a chance to emerge from their eggsacs. They are starving to death."

Now Romano felt even worse about asking. "Geez. I, uh… m'sorry for asking."

"They were for science," returned Barricade lowly. "Nothing more."

The next question he regretted immediately after it left his lips: "So you guys can't love?" Mike winced at how it sounded, but fortunately, his for-now companion seemed to take it in stride.

"Yes, we can," came the reply, hard metal words intonated with a detectable sense of … longing? Despair?

Romano didn't continue the conversation after that. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what would make someone he perceived to be as hard-nosed as Barricade say something like that.

Traffic in Washington D.C. was horrific as per usual. Barricade had taken to bitching about it as they sat in a bumper-to-bumper backup, cursing the wreck that was more than a mile ahead and the 'stupid insects inability to pilot the vehicles that they had created in a sufficient enough manner to avoid collisions'. Romano just stayed quiet and listened, knowing why the jam up had the Saleen freaked out. If the Autobots were following, the backup they were sitting in cut the distance between the hunters and their prey by quite a lot. As they inched past the 4-car fatality, Mike swore that Barricade was fed up enough to transform and walk around it. Or set it on fire. Both probably would have worked for him.

Finally, though, they managed to squeeze around it and back to open road. They continued on a southerly route on the uncluttered I-95 through Virginia down into North Carolina, and much to Barricade's relief, they picked up I-85, and then I-40 heading west in decent time. His recklessly fast driving had reduced the time from what should have been some eleven hours or more to only ten, even with the accident in Washington, and the food, gas, and piss breaks between. Honestly, he was pleased with himself.

Romano was less than thrilled. Fortunately, with the setting sun hours ago the stress of the day had caught up with him severely, allowing him the peace of sleep as Barricade stayed the course and continued onward.

With the rising of the sun came Nashville, Tennessee and all the lights that came with it. Romano had never been that far south, or west, for that matter. While the scenery was certainly entertaining and different from what he was used to, by the time 1 PM came around, he'd had enough.

"Dude, pull over or something. My legs are gonna fall off if I don't stretch them."

"What? Why?"

"Humans ain't meant to sit in a car for like 26 hours straight and not get a break, man. C'mon."

Barricade grumbled but took the next exit that had fast food and a gas station. "Weak insects. I can stay in my alternate mode for months without getting up."

"Yeah, yeah," the mechanic mumbled back at him, reading the sign for Mayflower, Arkansas, population 1,631. The town was three square miles and looked friendly enough. Mike didn't care. He could walk around and take a leak. "So strong 'n shit, I get it."

Barricade pulled in the Doublebee's gas station, slightly irked at the name and parked in front of a gas pump. "Cease the prattling and go do whatever it is that your fleshy body needs, carbonmonkey. I will refuel."

Gratefully, Romano flung himself out of the car and stretched languorously. "Wait a minute, how you payin' for shit? With what money?"

"My secret," purred Barricade as he closed his driver's door, wincing internally at the aches and pains that still plagued him from the Autobot attack.

Somehow, though, Mike managed to catch the flinch. He was becoming very aware of his strange friend's mannerisms. "Still hurtin'?"

The silver-haired hologram appeared and worked on paying for gas. "It will pass. Go, slag you."

The New Yorker offered the Saleen Mustang a one-finger salute courtesy of his home town and sauntered off towards the McDonald's across the street. _If this ain't the most abrupt and unplanned for road trip. Fuck. _He didn't even have a change of clothes or a goddamned toothbrush. He decided he'd make the damn surly Saleen pull off in the next town big enough to have a fricking Walmart so he could get some PJ pants or something a bit more comfortable and cleaner than his two-days-old jeans, sweater and jacket. He needed a shower something fierce, too, but he doubted he could get Barricade to sit still long enough for him to rent a hotel room over night.

Jamming his hands in his coat pockets to protect against the cold, Romano slipped his way over to the well known fast food stop across the street, wandering back to the black and white interceptor after nabbing a couple of McDoubles and a Coke. Barricade watched Mike display the seemingly unending talent that most human men had: he finished both the burgers in about six bites and was done with the Coke by the time he got to him. It was baffling, truly.

"There is nothing but dead birds here," the Decepticon muttered.

Mike peered at the frozen crow laying beside the gas pump. "An' a McDonald's, an' a gas station, and somewhere around here there are sixteen hundred people hidden. Prolly underground."

"Underground?"

"Was a joke, man, dun worry about it."

The greasemonkey couldn't help but notice the small group of townies huddled up in front of the gas station, staring at the weird scruffy dude and the slick police car. Romano wasn't from around there, and it seemed as though the locals knew it and didn't appreciate it.

Barricade's comment about Michael's ability to filter what he was going to say rang true. "Th' fuck you guys lookin' at?"

The Saleen sighed.

The group of seven local men looked at one another, and each brandished either a pistol or a rifle from somewhere under their coats, and in the case of one, a mobile blowtorch. "Wha'd y'just say, city boy?" one drawled.

"…Why, I said whatta lovely lil town ya got here an' how we- uh, I'll be hittin' the road."

"S'what I thought. G'wan and head on yer way now."

Sure, at first, he tried for slow calmness. It just didn't last, as Mike quickly slunk into the driver's side and threw on his seatbelt as Barricade primed his engine and pulled away from the station.

"What have we learned, carbonmonkey?" the low voice rasped in vague amusement. Perhaps it wasn't so vague. In fact, it was palpable.

"Paddle faster, man, I hear banjos."


	20. Bear Bait

Collision XX

Bear Bait

By: The Feesh

Life on the road, as it turned out, was incredibly boring.

Fortunately, it hadn't taken much in the way of persuasion to get the abominable, incessantly grouchy Saleen to let him use the laptop. It kept him sane over the long, drawn out drive over the flat-as-it-was-long Oklahoma. Though in the nine hours it took Michael and Barricade to drive from Mayflower, Arkansas to the flat desert of Amarillo, Texas, Romano was honestly certain the police interceptor was about to lose his mind.

"Uh, 'Cade? Barricade? Stay on the road!"

Mike grabbed ahold of the steering wheel and jerked it hard, veering the drifting Saleen Mustang back onto the highway before they had a chance to slam into the beginning of a guard rail on the right shoulder. Beneath his hands, the wheel stiffened as the interceptor metaphorically took control again. Barricade had been doing this for the last four hours, worsening steadily after the sun had gone down behind the desert horizon.

"Dude, th' fuck's wrong wit you?"

"Nothing!" Barricade snapped, growling. "It … I am ... slaggit."

"What, man? Slag what? This is not fuckin' okay anymore, dude, pull over or somethin'."

The snarl that resulted seemed to rattle forth from every solid piece within the S281's cab. "Drive, carbonmonkey."

"Oh yeah? In what? You got some phantom goddamn taxi followin' you around or something'?"

"No, you moronic bone-bag! Drive me!"

Suffice it was to say, that statement caught the New Yorker completely off guard. "Do .. Wha?"

"Take the wheel and _drive_. I am _tired_. I will resume automation after I recharge some."

"…Oh. Yer fallin' asleep," Mike offered tentatively.

"Yes, now _drive_."

Barricade had been in the process of following a slow left-hand curve at seventy miles per hour, and then he simply…didn't. Romano squealed girlishly as the car jerked back towards the side of the road and grabbed the steering wheel reflexively, expecting anything other than the simple automotive obedience that came when he eased the interceptor back on the right track. But, the Mustang went left when he asked, slowed down when the brake was depressed, and sped up as the human driver commanded it to, so the greasemonkey relaxed after a moment and leaned back in the seat. He couldn't really say he'd ever driven a souped-up Saleen, or a police car, or an alien from outer space; so really, it was a triple win for him.

_Well,_ he thought to himself. _I guess it could be worse. _This also meant he could take his own piss breaks and get food whenever he wanted without having to fight his odd friend for the stop, at least until Barricade woke up. Mike decided he would take the gift that had been given to him without looking at it in the mouth.

The horizon stretched out for miles and miles, a great flat expanse of sand and scraggly brush; above them, spread out, was a vast ocean of stars so clear it was startling. In New York City, one could never really see the stars for the lights and smog that engulfed the great city. Romano found himself staring upwards as he drove, listening to the low, growling thrum of the 4.8 liter V-8 engine sitting only feet in front of him, with just a few layers of metal and plastic separating him from the heat of a running engine. Or perhaps there was something else there, behind the disguise of the dashboard, radio face and steering wheel; maybe somewhere under that motor was something completely alien that Barricade was simply too good at hiding for a mere human to see. There had to be. The mechanic's mind wandered, thinking over the whirling dervish of clanking, shrieking metal as the interceptor formed limbs and a horrible face and stood up on its own. The Saleen S281 that Michael had thought he was dealing with had exploded and reformed into something beyond all human imagining. All those different pieces had to be somewhere, hidden away, tucked below layers and folds of car parts and body panels, invisible to prying eyes.

He wondered what space was like. Was it cold and empty as all the books said it was? Or was it throbbing with its own rhythmic life, unique to itself and all of its vastness? Staring at the dusting of white that peppered the black desert sky, Mike contemplated things he hadn't ever really considered before. The presence of alien life, what space sounded like, just how big was the universe? Perhaps Barricade would know, and maybe he wouldn't; nonetheless, if there ever was one to ask such things, he would get no better opportunity than to ask the alien himself.

_Itself_, the New York native reminded himself. _He answers to "he" but he's an "it". Christ on a pogostick, that's weird._

Romano realized it was snowing just a little bit.

* * *

As it turned out, Barricade clearly did not need much sleep. It was a short four hour trip from Amarillo to Albuquerque and as they closed in on the New Mexico city around three in the morning, the Mustang took control once more.

"Got yer beauty rest, eh, man?" Romano ventured, stretching as much as he could in the cramped cabin space.

"Stuff it, carbonmonkey, lest you discover what it is like to become one with a cactus."

The police interceptor took a moment to get his bearings. They were still headed due west on Interstate 40, towards a larger city in the state of New Mexico. The Saleen drove silently, vaguely aware that his passenger was also quiet, nothing more than a still weight of heat against the leather of his left front seat. Dismally, Barricade thought over his initial plan and came across a troubling revelation: he was wrong. He had done very little travel in the American southwest and had thought, for the fleeting moments he was thinking of his escape, that it was less barren. There were hills and scraggly little scrubs, but overall, New Mexico was nothing but wide open desert. He could not _hide_ in wide open desert.

As he drove, Barricade researched. Southern California always seemed to be on fire, and as such, was relatively unsuitable for hiding if the brush was always burning. However, just due north, was an area rich with places to vanish for a short while – and the Saleen was not talking about the type of disappearing one did in a city. There was still that chance that whatever big town he found himself in, there would be some image that some tourist would take that would catch him in the background, and somehow, the Autobots would get a hold of it. He meant to disappear completely, off the roads, away from civilization, and as much as Barricade loathed the idea, a thorough camping trip was likely the best course to take. He would lose them by getting off of the roads and away from prying eyes, by _walking_ through the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. At least then, with no way to tell which way he was headed, the Autobots would be hard pressed to figure out which side of the wilderness he would come out at.

Like organic prey taking to a shallow river to shake its hunter, so would the Saleen.

Barricade changed direction in Albuquerque, getting off of I-40 for the first time in well over a thousand miles. Their little trip was nearly over, in far more ways than one. Michael would likely find it a relief to be free of the no doubt suffocating confines of his interior. Humans were such needy, picky creatures. The Romano monkey complained about cramps after only a few hours, when Barricade had spent upwards of several weeks in his alternate form without complaint. Supposing that being himself in a different form was not a sufficient enough comparison, the shock trooper thought about a suitable situation in which he had once found himself, deciding that on numerous occasions, for numerous reasons, he had, indeed, been stuck on a tiny little ship with mechs far larger than himself with barely elbow room to spare. He didn't complain then, although Barricade would gladly admit he was all too eager to get off of that miserable little star jumper and back to the shiny, destruction-filled _Nemesis_.

And it had grand at one time. In its prime, the _Nemesis_ had been the immaculate flagship to the once impressive Decepticon fleet, a great black beacon of wanton destruction spearheading the Decepticon movement. Barricade had been proud to serve on the battlefield that was Cybertron, but nothing, absolutely _nothing_ would ever compare to being an officer, an Elite, even, aboard that ship. Cybertronians for millennia would know the names of the officers of that vessel, and the black and white's had already been branded into the minds of so many Autobot foes for his vast reputation as a killer. But he was so much more that such a plain word simply could not describe all the fields in which Barricade had managed to excel. He started as a shock trooper on Cybertron, ascending through his talents in blockade running to serve among officers. There, he became a notable interrogationist as well as a vicious soldier on the battlefield, and was over time passed up through the higher echelon until the eyes of Megatron himself descended upon him. Loyalty and promise held much sway with the ruthless king.

Barricade had a vast background, however, most notably, in the scientific fields. With the Allsparks launch came their leader's disappearance, and the _Nemesis_ was deployed to find him. There the Saleen was allowed more freedom to his whims, achieving Chief of Science and starting a project that would, with hope, give rise to a new army. Before anyone else had figured out the secret, they were successful. In the belly of that glorious beast known as the _Nemesis_, well over two-thousand lives were sparked to be groomed into the new soldiers to serve under Lord Megatron as soon as they found him. Unfortunately, as plans tended to go, things went awry; Megatron was killed and the Allspark was destroyed.

And the _Nemesis_? Nothing more than a derelict, sitting in a collection of its own slowly melting debris as the acidic atmosphere of the great moon Titan served an unexpected but worthy deliverer of the flagship's _coup de gráce_.

He didn't realize he'd driven almost an hour and a half, stuck in the middle of his little trip down memory lane. How things change. In that short time the landscape had gone white and transformed from the barren deserts of New Mexico to the woods and mountains of the beginning of the Santa Fe National Forest, which was precisely where Barricade wanted to be. Signs for a town called 'Glorieta' flashed by, and for a moment the Saleen Mustang was reminded sharply of dead birds and Mayflower rednecks, but shook off the feeling of contempt. The tiny town of eight hundred or so was as good as any to end this weird little game.

It was the forest he wanted. Dense and horrible and organic as it may be, it would be so easy for even a sixteen foot ebony-clothed killer robot from Mars to merely vanish without a trace. That, and Michael was beginning to drive him mad. Every waking moment of every day for the last several days the fleshbag had done nothing but whine for cigarettes, which Barricade wouldn't let him smoke while in the cabin. Why? The scent was absolutely foul to the Saleens particularly keen olfactory sensors, so offensive in fact that he couldn't reasonably stand it even with both windows all the way down. Most humans wrinkled their nose at the smell of cigarette smoke, but a single burning stick of that cancer-causing garbage made Barricade suffer the most intense desire to flee the scene and scrub himself until there was no paint left. He likened it to the fetid fumes of a week dead floating corpse left out in the peak summer sun for six days in a place like Ecuador.

For whatever reason, many of the inferior insects let themselves fall to the cigarettes addictive properties. His current passenger was no different. For much of the trip, the carbonmonkey was twitchy for more reasons than just boredom. He chewed gum and ate hard candy like they were going out of style and couldn't ever seem to keep his hands still. After the fiftieth time of Michael changing radio stations and poking knobs and buttons to see what they all did, Barricade nearly went off road in the extremely loud bloom of rage he suffered, explaining by use of excessive decibels precisely what was going to become of Romano's hands if he dared to touch his radio face again. It tickled, god damnit.

Barricade pulled off of the interstate, slipping onto an unplowed two lane road, tires struggling for grip in the icy slush that still covered the ground. He was relatively impervious to the cold, but damned if the mech couldn't have his opinions on it, and he absolutely hated it. He preferred heat over cold mainly because a hot dry road was by far easier to drive on than a cold frozen one.

There wasn't much to Glorieta, New Mexico. Barricade might not have elected to drop Romano off there had there not been that single conference center that sported primitive cabins for camping. At six in the morning, there was no one there, but the Saleen figured he could break into one of the cabins and toss Mike in there so that the human could fend for himself. It was cold as hell, but the center would open in just a few hours and surely the weak little carbonmonkey could handle himself until then.

The black and white sports car pulled over to the curb. "Fleshbag."

"Hm?" The greasmonkey sat up partially from where he had slumped against the window to nap. "What?"

"The end of the road," Barricade said. "Get out. This is Glorieta, New Mexico. There are primitive cabins for you to stay in until morning when you can find your own way home. Santa Fe is not far from here."

The end of the road? "Oh…Okay." For a moment, the New Yorker just sat and stared at the steering wheel. "Where are you gonna go?"

Barricade seemed surprised by the question. "None of your business," he snapped sharply, before revising the words with a mechanical sigh. Romano didn't mean any harm, surely. "I am going to vanish. I suppose the term 'camping', while crude, is sufficient."

Romano looked into the dark at the black depths of trees that started not far from them. The town was settled at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. "Yer goin'… out in that? In winter?"

"That is correct. The cold does not bother me as it does you. The Autobots will not be able to adequately hunt me out there." The Saleen's door opened.

"I guess so," mumble the mechanic as he stared out of the open door, cringing away from the blast of cold air. "I guess 'dis is g'bye?"

"Yes, that is what this is. Farewell, fleshwad."

Mike pulled the blanket he had bought on one of the stops closer around his shoulders and watched the Saleen Mustang pull off and drive away. He had to admit, he would miss the crazy ass cop. Barricade was one of the most interesting things to happen to him since the birth of his kid, and he sort of wished, in some whimsical part of his brain, that he could have gone with the S281. But Romano had never been the adventurous type, and turned back to find the cabins once he could no longer see the bright white doors and blazing sanguine tail lights. He looked at the pretty building in front of him, the Catholic Center, and decided it to be boring in his eyes. The entire tiny town was disquieting for all its utter silence; Romano despised the peaceful tranquility that seemed to engulf Glorieta, so used to the din and clutter and loudness that surrounded New York City.

With a sigh, he turned back around. Barricade had said he was going camping, talking a walk through the woods, and the logic behind the maneuver was sound, Romano supposed. If the Autobots were tracking him, he could vanish into the Santa Fe National Park and Christ knew where he'd come out at. He could traipse along the Rockies clear into Canada if he wanted to. The greasemonkey sighed a bit once more and gathered the blanket closer, casting a quick glance around before heading off down the road. The sun would be up relatively soon and a few hours of walking wouldn't hurt him. Besides, he didn't really want to break into some after hours cabin to steal time from a conference center run by Catholics. They'd damn him thrice for that.

* * *

_This is as good a place as any._

Thought, of course, with the sardonic voice in the back of his heading telling him there was no good place to stay in the woods. It all sucked, and it was cold, and wet, and organically foul but it was all there was. The Autobots had spooked him but good this time, enough to drive him across the country and completely off the road itself. Barricade wanted nothing to do with the interstates or cities. He was never going to fully heal if they kept finding him, and it was bafflingly unclear to him how in the Primus-forsaken Void they kept managing to do that! Track him without him knowing, set a trap and spring it – all without his knowledge! _He _was the damn hunter, not them!

His internal repair systems hadn't quite been the same since the accident with the garbage truck two years previous. The greasemonkey had repaired him enough to jumpstart the system and get it going again, but since then, it had been…slower than normal. Barricade had been known to have a freakishly fast repair rate, but that speed had been cut down a staggering forty percent since then, and that news was exceptionally unsettling to the mech. He could not _afford_ to heal slower when he was dealing with the Autobot mange dogging his heels every step he took!

Barricade grumbled to himself and settled down on his side in the snow with a giant old pine firmly against his back. He had much to think about and consider for this part of the game, important things, such as where he was going to be getting fuel from in the Rocky Mountains. He wanted to stay away from heavily travelled roads as much as possible, and decided that he would simply not eat. It wouldn't take him more than a week and a half to get to where he wanted to be, and he could survive without refueling until then. Sure, perhaps he would be but a scant step away from complete starvation, but he would make it. He just had to keep his head on straight when the hunger became so biting that eating his own armor seemed like a good alternative.

Primus, but he did hurt. The mechanical beast rested just a few negligible miles from the tiny town that was barely deserving of a name, but he knew no one would find him out here. No one would know to look. The snow was deep and Barricade had chosen to trudge the terrain on all fours, dragging his feet enough to bury his footprints and throw off anyone or anything that might have wanted to follow him. Logic dictated that he keep moving, but he feared that continuing as he had would aggravate his problems past the point of healing at all. It was a very, very long walk, and one that had to be conducted at a quick pace lest he simply starve to death in the anonymous expanse of conifers in the Santa Fe –

"Is this th' only five star joint around?"

If five thousand pounds of metal could move at teleportation speeds, Barricade had surely achieved it. Startled out of his doze, the Saleen spooked like a deer and bolted to his feet, staring in ire at none other than the Primus-thrice-damned human being he had dropped off a few miles away. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Romano shrugged, but kept his distance in case the alien robot decided it was a fantastic idea to tear him apart. "I figured if I was goin' campin', I was actually gonna camp. Or something. And it's scary stealing from Catholics. And the cabins smell like mothballs."

"Mothballs," the monster repeated, as if incredulously, before sinking back down in a lazy sprawl against the conifer. "I hope you become prey to some indigenous feline predator. Or a bear."

"More likely to freeze t' death, and even then, I'm from New York. It gets fuckin' cold there."

"In fact, I believe I saw a bear den not that far from here. With bears in it. You should go sleep in it."

"Ha ha," retorted Romano with a waved rude hand gesture. His expression sobered some. "Ya dun look like ya feel too good."

Barricade snorted. "I do not. You remember what being shot feels like, but you did not have to run a cross country marathon immediately after."

Mike hadn't really thought of it that way. "Ya gonna … make it through a'ight?"

"I always do, bonebag," growled the machine. "I always do."

The New Yorker made a huffing sort of noise and moved closer, watching for any sign (that he could read, what if body language for the aliens was ass backwards?) that his proximity was unwelcome. When no such signal was issued, he eased down to sit on a rock with his back against the lower part of Barricade's chest, against a set of vents he knew to be there from the few times he was close to the beast in his … uh … form. The Saleen seemed to tolerate that contact well enough, as the human was fairly certain that if his weird asshole of a companion had seen fit, he would have cut him up and left him for bear bait for now. Besides, he wasn't all that inclined to move, what with the steady _woosh_ of hot air against his back coming from the slotted vents that presumably led into Barricade's internals. _Like a computer fan._

"So…you know where ya headed afta 'dis?"

Barricade realized how much he hated Michael's accent. "No. And if you do not shut up and allow me to sleep, I am going to turn you inside out, hang you from a tree and fish bears with you as the bait."

_I guess he read my mind..._ "But I thought you already slept?"

"_Michael_."

"…sorry."

* * *

Author's note: _So I have a question for anyone who reads this and feels like answering. Chapter twenty was designed to be the last chapter of the Collision series, but I have been entertaining the thought of continuing it. Problem is, I am fresh out of ideas, a problem I have been having for a while with Collision. I love the story, but I've struggled with ideas. WHAT I NEED FROM YOU ... are those ideas. Note me with any further plot points you'd like to see in the series, exempting a Barricade/Mike pairing. Think outside of the box, be creative, as apparently my creativity center in my brain has decided to be stupid. Even if you think it's a stupid idea, please, note me, I may just be able to use it. I want your ideas! What would YOU like to see in a chapter of Collision? Obviously, rude or otherwise uncalled for messages will be shrugged at and deleted. _

_Also, I'm alot more likely to use ideas PM'd to me than ones in reviews. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love my reviews, that's what keeps me writing, but I'd rather discuss plot points and ideas privately, that way each plot I write is a surprise for everyone else. :)  
_


	21. Bear Country

Collision XXI

Bear Country

By: The Feesh

Barricade had been off all morning. Not that there was anything normal about the entire situation, but really, his usual alien weirdness levels were just completely off the charts. It was obvious, even to a dumb greasemonkey like Mike. The monster machine would constantly switch back and forth between a bipedal stance and a quadrupedal one, never staying up or down for long. He would stumble, slip, bump into trees and jutting rock outcroppings and on one memorable occasion, walked face-first into a pine tree.

The second time the black and white creature familiarized his face with a conifer, Mike said something.

"Okay, what d' fuck, dude?"

Barricade stopped and swung his head around to peer at Mike over the mass of a wide, thick shoulder. "What?" he growled dully.

_Definitely somethin' off._ "What's up? Ya been stumblin' around 'n shit like yer a drunkard."

This little setback was not included in any of Barricade's calculations. When one looked at the big picture, the "little" hindrance was in fact a very, very large one. He had been operating under the assumption after the Autobots attacked him that his Internal Repair Sequence would begin to restore injured ferrous tissue, as it always had in the past. He had _always_ been able to take severe damage that would have downed most other mechs and keep going. It was crucial to his uncanny ability to survive: get seriously wounded, run like hell. It's what the Saleen had done in this case when he fled across the country and took to the wilderness to shake off his pursuers. It just wasn't working this time.

"It is nothing." Barricade eyed the New Yorker. "Head west. We are two miles from the highway. Once you reach it, take it north. One mile ahead, you will find a car on the shoulder, Dodge Caliber, white. The keys are in it, it is unlocked. Use it to get to Santa Fe, meet me there in a few days. I will contact you."

"Now, wait a minnit," Romano replied, crossing his arms. "Yer tellin' me ya want me ta just waltz through the woods alone?"

Barricade made the most horrifying gesture: he bared his teeth. Faceplates parted and peeled away in the most unsettling way to do so. "Yes. That is exactly what I am saying. Have you always had such an issue taking simple direction, meatwad, or is this a new development?"

"I'm from New York. We got problems wit' authority."

"I suggest you drop your regional specific pride and recall that you are not in New England any longer. You are in the middle of the woods in New Mexico with a being that outmatches you in size, weight, speed, weaponization and more importantly, intelligence. You were born to die; I was built to kill. And I _always_ have a plan, so when I tell you to do something, Michael James Romano, I suggest you do it with nary more than a 'yes, sir'." It was disconcerting, how Barricade's voice kept gaining in volume and irritation. "You have three choices, fleshling, three paths ahead for you to take. You can take the car and drive back to New York. You can take the car and drive to Santa Fe. You can lastly elect to stay here and continue in your infinitely effective methods of goading my steadily shortening temper and wind up feeding some wild animal after I use your guts as cougar fishing equipment! Which road will you take?"

It was fucking terrifying when the interceptor got mad. He was entirely made of metal, plastic and various kinds of rubber material and yet there was still some way that Barricade managed to make all the small plates and components along his back and shoulders stand up like the hackles on a harried dog. Mike Romano took the few moments he thought he had to think on his decision, and to study the alien before him. It was curious, to see a nearly humanoid creature standing on all fours. It worked, though, in an odd way; Barricade's arms were long and incredibly powerful to compensate for his short back and midsection. A solid seventy percent or more of his weight was supported by those thick, sturdy arms because his legs were too far back to hold that much mass. Barricade resembled a gorilla, or perhaps a German shepherd dog that was stacked out. _A fuckin' metalled out war gorilla with knives fer fingers n' a mouth fulla sharks teeth._

Curiosity won out. "A'ight, fine. I'll meetcha in Santa Fe. How ya gonna call me? My cell phone is dead, has been for days."

"I have my ways."

Mike wasn't entirely satisfied with that answer, and despite his better judgment, he left. It would bug the hell out of him for the entire long, horrible hike exactly how Barricade knew that there would be an unlocked car waiting for him a couple miles down the road, but what other choice did he have? It was entirely too cold for him to keep traipsing about in the national park like it was a camping trip. That, and Barricade walked really fast, when he wasn't tripping into ravines or headdesking trees. They'd been hiking since dawn, and it was well past noon when the two parted ways. Romano was endlessly curious about what the Saleen wanted from him in Santa Fe, and mused to himself as he drove after retrieving the Caliber from the highway shoulder. He _had_ to ask the damn pissant Mustang how the hell he'd managed to pull that off.

* * *

_Authors note: My god, I know it's short. My new years Resolution is to write 1 paragraph on Collision per day, with the goal of getting chapters up faster. I still haven't given up. Aughs. On the other hand, it made it past chapter 20, so I'm going to keep going with it despite having so much muse for Sentinel Prime it's sickeninghomg. I love that god damn traitorous red Rosenbaur like whoa.  
_


	22. Duck, Duck, Goose

Collision XXII

Duck, Duck, Goose

By: The Feesh

Michael James Romano, to be quite frank, wasn't sure exactly how the _fuck_ Barricade managed to do more than half of the things he did. There was, in fact, a white Dodge Caliber sitting on the side of the empty highway, unlocked, with the keys inside just as the snarly Saleen had promised. It had a full tank of gas, and was the R/T trim Dodge put out that year – Mike discovered just how awesome heated seats were and that the little two-point-four liter four cylinder engine had some pep for what was supposed to be a granny mobile hatchback. It also handled ice and snow very well so long as the New York native didn't do anything imbecilic.

Inside that car, tucked away in the glove box, was a fully charged prepaid cellphone. The described carbonmonkey found this when it started ringing as he neared Santa Fe, causing a comical near wreck because the volume on the phone was up all the way, and it had the most obnoxious ringtone Barricade could find. The conversation that followed between Mike and his bizarre pseudo-friend had been nothing short of riotous; for the first four minutes as the black and white saw fit to give him direction on where and when he'd be coming into Santa Fe, Romano could only comment on how atrocious Barricade's voice was over the phone. The exceedingly loud snarled ranting that followed was so jarring and awful to listen to that Mike had held the phone away from his ear as far across the car as he could and he could _still_ hear every single godforsaken word that was being roared at him. Eventually, he actually paid attention and retained the information Barricade was trying to chew into his head.

The surly creature would head into Santa Fe, New Mexico by way of the Dale Ball Trails and touch asphalt on the ending cul-de-sac of Pso De Don Carlos, where there appeared to be a realty business and a few houses. Barricade had less than twenty-five miles to walk, but it was over terrain he disliked and he was wounded on top of it, so he gave himself two days, as he explained; he would walk at night and lay low when the sun was up. He would give the cell phone a call when he was within a few hours distance, and until then, there was a credit card in the Caliber's center console he instructed Romano to use so that the mechanic did not use his own and risk being caught. The Decepticon knew his Autobot pursuers would be nose out for any sign of that smelly cigarette smoking fleshwad.

Romano sighed and found a decent hotel, wholly uncomfortable with using some random credit card but he knew he risked disembowelment if he went against what the churlish mechanoid had told him. Fortunately upon closer inspection it wasn't actually a credit hard – it was a Visa gift card loaded with somewhere around two thousand dollars. Where Barricade had gotten the money, Mike didn't even really want to speculate. He had two days to hang out in Santa Fe, New Mexico before he had to meet up with Barricade and presumably try to fix him as he had done before, but the thought occurred to him: he had no tools. This was unacceptable. A Wal-Mart run was made for essentials: a couple pairs of pants, some long-sleeved shirts to wear under his coat (which was almost too heavy for the thirty- and forty-degree Fahrenheit weather Santa Fe was experiencing), and other such essentials that included some freaking shampoo and undergarments. Then on to other life fundamentals for one who was a mechanic, and several hundred dollars later Romano loaded up the Caliber with his basic hygiene needs, some food, a hefty toolbox full of things he thought he might need, and about ten rolls of duct tape. _Duct tape fixes fuckin' everything_.

After that, it was a waiting game. He had, opportunely, already called the boys at the shop when Barricade had first taken him, explaining to Danny that there had been a sudden family emergency and he'd had to take off unexpectedly. Fowler had the keys to his apartment, and would get the shop keys and run the garage until Mike got back. _If I ever get back, god damn_. The New Yorker eyed the no smoking sign on the wall and considered taking the battery out of the smoke alarm, but it was too much effort to be wasted on just being belligerent. Not the mention hotels tended to charge a hefty fee for broken rules and he was staying in a pretty nice one, at least in his opinion. It was the freaking Hotel St. Francis, the nicest place he'd ever stayed in and boy, did he ever feel outclassed here. After all, for the basic guest room he'd gotten it was over a hundred bucks a night – most of the time Mike stayed in places that were, like, a hundred bucks for a week. The scruffy New Yorker who needed a shower and a shave had instantly felt like a homeless person the second he stepped into that lobby, but it was one of the first places he found. He was entirely too tired to give two shits what anybody else thought.

Romano stepped outside and leaned against the wall, cupping his hands over his mouth to light a cigarette against the slight wind that his lighter didn't tend to agree with. The greasemonkey had to wonder just what the hell he'd gone and gotten himself into. This situation was so far out of his damn league. He belonged back home, in New York City, fixing cars and fighting with his ex over what weekends he got to have Nick. _Nick_. He hadn't gotten to call little Nicky yet. Mike had left a voicemail with his mother explaining a similar lie he'd told his best buddy Danny with some modifications, as she knew he didn't have any family out west. He just told her he had a good buddy from school about to kick the bucket from cancer and he'd wanted to go say goodbye. Nobody would call him on that at risk of sounding like an asshole for giving a guy flack for going to see someone dying of leukemia.

But he wasn't in Sacramento seeing an old pal. He was in Santa Fe, New Mexico on his own free will trying to help a creature that, as Barricade himself had described, outmatched him in strength, speed, size, and intelligence. So why did he need to stick around? _Because d' asshole was blowin' smoke,_ he reasoned to himself. The alien was certainly bigger, stronger, faster, and meaner than almost any New Yorker Mike had ever met, but he kept dragging the human around. _'e needs me for somethin'. Something he ain't able t'do himself._ It was Mike's own intuition that told him to get a box full of tools, if not to fix whatever was making Barricade walk face first into trees and rocks, at least to fix the damage he did to himself by said mishaps. Mike didn't know. It was the not-knowing that kept him here. That gnawing, biting _curiosity_ to see what was going to happen next that made him take I-25 in that Dodge Caliber up to Santa Fe instead of turning tail and running home. The story wasn't done yet and he wanted to know what the ending would be. He'd stuck with Barricade this long; he might as well keep at it until they reached whatever conclusion was coming to them.

Romano flicked his cigarette butt away and watched a curiously colored car ooze by in the parking lot. It was a bright blue Michigan State Police Charger, what locals tended to call a "Goose" (the color was also described as Goose Blue and it was illegal to paint an unofficial vehicle that color under risk of being charged with impersonation). _Long way from home. A little less so than me, eh?_ Michael thought to himself as he watched the Goose roll by and disappear around the corner. He was unaware Michigan allowed officers to take their Dodge Charger interceptors on vacations.

He was bored. Mike had showered, shaved, and fixed himself a little New York dinner (also known as burnt hotdogs) on the little kitchenette the room had and it wasn't sundown yet. He still had two days; he reasoned he might as well go see a little bit of Santa Fe while he was here. Romano grabbed his jacket, the keys to the white R/T Caliber in the parking lot and headed out after making sure he had the hotel room key and his wallet. It was forty-something degrees outside, t-shirt weather for New York Staters in winter, so he rolled his windows down and cruised along, chain smoking as he was prone to doing. He didn't give a shit, it wasn't his car, and he doubted he'd ever find out who it belonged to anyway. The desert wasn't really his thing, but he had to admit that it was kind of pretty. Many of the buildings were built to resemble adobe – the old mud and straw building material indigenous people of this region used to build with, or so he seemed to remember. Mike didn't pay that much attention in history class. Some people still had their holiday motifs up, but for the most part Christmas had already been forgotten in the town of Santa Fe, and in reality, the same went for everywhere. After December twenty-fifth, it was like the holidays never happened. It was somewhat depressing for all the buildup to that pivotal day, which started usually in fucking October, to just vanish on the twenty-sixth. Then it was New Years and drinking and festivities until the second of January and then nothing until Thanksgiving. No other holiday was given as much hooplah as the end of the year.

Romano drove around aimlessly, just seeing what there was to see and driving because he enjoyed the activity. The radio was talking about bad weather moving in later that night, and the greasemonkey winced. Barricade was going to love that, stuck out in the wild in it. Hopefully his being an alien robot would mean he couldn't die of exposure.

Flashing lights behind him got Romano's attention. _You have got to be shitting me._ Unfortunately for him, the cop behind him was, in fact, shitting him not and wanted him to pull over somewhere. _The fuck did I do? I wasn't speedin', I made sure a' dat! Out of state cops are assholes. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Is this car stolen? What if it's a fuckin' stolen car? Jesus Christ on a cracker I'll fuckin' kill him! I'll take a pipe wrench to his engine block so hard he'll be combustin' oil for a fuckin' week!_

Mike wasn't even sure that made any sense, but it felt good to think it. He pulled off into a strip mall parking lot and threw the hatchback into park, grumbling to himself. He watched the cop climb out of the car in the rearview mirror – _wait a damn minute. That ani't no Santa Fe cruiser._

The officer approached his window. "License and registration, please."

Mike sort of squeaked. In his defense, it was the biggest fucking black dude he'd ever seen. The guy had to be over six feet tall and three hundred pounds. But Mike cleared his throat and said, "Ya can't pull me over."

The burly trooper raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? Whyssat?"

"Yer way out of yer jurisdiction, Michigan."

_Damnit._ The cop turned to look at the bright blue Charger he was driving. He was hoping the moronic human wouldn't argue something like jurisdictions. Most wouldn't. "A'ight. Yeh caught me."

"Not only 'dat, state troopers can't do much inside city limits, dat's Santa Fe's job, not the state of New Mexico. I saw 'dat Goose driving around the parkin' lot of my hotel," responded the New Yorker as he got out of the Caliber. "Ya been followin' me. Why?"

This was evidently a pretty smart human. The trooper, who didn't have a nametag on, smiled. "We're tracking a missin' man who was last seen within thirty miles of here in a black and white police vehicle. Yeh match that man's description and accent."

"An' I bet lotsa N'Yorkers come to vacation in New Mexico." _Bullshit._ They were more likely to vacation in Florida. He now knew there was something fishy about this cop.

"Yeah, I get that. C'mon, man, you don't got to go along with whatever the flippin' fuck he's roped yeh into. I can smell 'im all over yeh."

Romano was officially creeped out. "Who?"

"Barricade. I smell 'im on yeh."

"…Th' fuck does _that_ mean?" Oh so creepy.

The big man laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, where the short neck-length braids were tickling him a bit. Mike noticed he was very light-skinned for an African American man, almost like he had some Caucasian blood in him. He was also very neat, with clean cornrows decorating his head and a nicely pressed uniform.

"Ya think I'm just a Michigan stater followin' you all the way out here? Nah, man. This ain't me. _That_ is me." The cop jerked a thick thumb back towards the goose blue Michigan State Police Charger sitting innocuously behind the Dodge Caliber. The Charger flickered its headlights and the driver's door, which had been hanging open, shut on its own.

"Jesus jump-up _Christ_, you got to be kiddin' me," the geasemonkey groaned, slapping a palm against his forehead. "Listen' man. Ya'll gotta leave 'im be, a'ight? Ain't doin' nobody any good chasin' him around, pissin' him off. Guy's gotta temper and he's fuckin' crazy as a shaved badger. He's just tryin' ta get the hell away from ya'll. A'ight?"

"Aright," responded the fake-cop. "I get it. All I'm offerin' yeh, man, is a ride home and an extra set of eyeballs. I'll take yeh home and stick around the city a while, make sure Barricade don't come after yeh. No harm, no foul, you get back to your life and without a human hostage, my superiors have agreed ta let 'im be unless he decides ta, I dunno, melt down a busload of nuns."

Mike went silent at that, considering. Could he trust this lunkhead to go through with his word? More importantly, could he trust the hologram and the Goose blue Dodge Charger with it to just take him back home?

Or was there something else going on here?

* * *

_Authors note: You'd think I'd be able to puzzle out the secrets to roman numerals by now, but no. I still have to look them up. Ahurrhurr._

_Also. The concept of Transformers belongs overall to Hasbro, however, the Collision story idea belongs to me, and the character concept of Speedtrap, 2006 Michigan State Police "Goose" Dodge Charger SRT8 belongs solely and only to Samma, my friend and roommate. Steal the name+personality combo, and I will hunt you, I will find you, and if you've seen the movie Taken, you know where I'm going with this._

_Cheers._


	23. Enlightenment

_(Disclaimer: Egregious usage of the word "fuck" ahead. Hide your children.)_

Collision XXIII

Enlightenment

By: The Feesh

"…Bullshit."

Speedtrap opened is arms, gigantic clawed hands spreading. "I swear!"

Mike shook his head. "Nuh. No way, no how."

The scene, to anyone looking on from a distance, must have been comical. Mike Romano had relented at least partially and opted to find out more about the supposed alien from Detroit, following the goose blue Charger out to the edge of town. Romano couldn't deny the bolt of fear that ebbed like a tide into a gut churning nervousness when the Dodge – whose name was Speedtrap, as Mike later found out – stood up at his full height. Speedtrap was seventeen feet tall and, by his own admission, weighed in at an impressive nine-thousand pounds.

"Dere's no way. That six liter under ya hood ain't _ever_ movin' no three fuckin' tons. No way."

The blue, black and gunmetal gray mech swept his hands out plaintively – Mike noted that his left hand was much larger and heavier than his right one. "Dude, I swear to yeh on th' Red Wings good fortune. My engine _looks_ like d' normal one but it ain't. I promise you Barricade's ain't the usual four-point-six liter you gonna find inna Extreme neither."

"I been in his engine bay, man," rumbled Mike disapprovingly. "It was pretty legit."

"It _looked_ legit, man, I'm tellin' ya."

Mike stared at Speedtrap. Speedtrap stared at Mike.

"Okay, dat ain't fair. Ya ain't got any eyelids."

The Goose flashed a grin; the gesture itself was as grotesque was it was sincere. The greasemonkey fought not to recoil at the grim display of razor sharp teeth. "Nup. C'n stare atcheh all day long and not miss nuttin'."

The New Yorker crossed his arms, sitting on a downed pine tree with nothing to light his way other than the small, sort of sad little campfire they had managed to light after clearing a spot in the snow. Mike was even less outdoorsy than Speedtrap seemed to be – the wilds were not their friend, and it had taken them a fair hour to get the pitiful pile of semi-dry wood to light. Speedtrap crouched across the small clearing, alien features thrown into stark contrast by the flickering of the fire. Romano allowed the silence to fall on the clearing like a blanket after the Goose's last statement, thinking. The similarities between his unpleasant black friend and this new bright blue mech were not lost on the high strung but still remarkably sharp mechanic; Speedtrap's entire head was structured similarly to Barricade, they both had talons instead of fingers and both of their primary features were sharp and fearsome in comparable ways. The Charger was taller and built heavier, like a tank on legs and about as smart. Romano didn't buy the stupid act hook, line and sinker. He left his assumptions open on the creature's supposed intelligence; perhaps Speedtrap was dumb as a brick, perhaps not. The human didn't think he was as stupid as he tried to seem.

Then again, after listening to Barricade speak on nearly any subject, terrible voice aside, Michael had issues imagining any of these creatures as less than genius-level.

The human drew his coat around him a little tighter, listening to the utter silence that surrounded them. The crackle of the pitiful little fire provided the only background noise in the otherwise dead seeming Santa Fe forest.

"So," Mike began once more, and Speedtrap looked his way. "Yer onna the Autobots. Yeah?"

The mech bobbed his homely head. "Yep."

"And you…think ya doin' me a favor by wantin' ta take me back ta N'york."

"Yeah. S'what I'm tellin' yeh. I been toe t' toe with 'im more 'n once and it's been my thick skin a time 'r two that got me outta hot water with 'im." Speedtrap exhaled through the various external vents in his body, sounding curiously similar to a sigh. "I don't spose he's chatted much on d' war."

Mike shook his head and scowled. "Dere were two sides, he's one side and you're d'other. That's all I know."

"Yeah, I thought as much," replied the Goose. "We're here chasin' somethin' that was important ta us. It was a relic that creates life out of machines, inna nutshell. He's on d' side that wanted to get the relic and use it ta make a new army outta Earth's machines, and snuff out everything livin' in tha process."

Mike's pokerface was superb. "Uh huh," he said after a moment. Speedtrap had to admire the fleshling's level-headedness. The question brought forward next was one worthy of contemplation. "So, if he's here ta murder n' pillage n' all that good shit, why's he still here? Why'd he save my ass when I got shot back home?"

"That's…what Prime kinda wants ta know." The Charger studied the scuffed claws of his larger left hand. "We dunno why you're still around. 'Cade's a killer, an' I mean a stone cold one. Ain't shown much of a regard for life in what we've seen of him thus far. He's breakin' his patterns, goin' outside his norm and that's got us mighty worried. When a mech like Barricade goes on a wildly unpredictable path, there's always a dozen possible places that path might take him and everyone around him. Problem is, we never know which way he's going to go."

Mike grunted. "He went south-fuckin'-west from N'york to N'Mexico."

"I ain't talkin' direction, dipshit. He's got somethin' up his gorram sleeve and we wanna know what it is."

"Look, as far as I can tell – gorram? Really, Captain Mal? – far as I can tell, he's just running fuck all over hell's half acre from YOU people. Thinks yer gonna fuckin' off 'im. What I seen so far doesn't tell me that ain't true. Is it?" Romano dug his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.

Speedtrap shrugged, rustling something nondescript for a metallic rattling sound that struck the air with startling clarity in comparison to the woodsy silence. "Man, I couldn' tell ya what d' Prime wants. I'mma grunt. I don't get clued inta datshit."

"Okay," Mike held up a hand. "Who dis 'Prime' dude you keep talkin' 'bout? Ya make 'im sound like God."

"Uhh, not exactly. But close, I guess," reasoned the blue Goose. "D'Prime is our kind's one true leader, or he's supposed ta be. Before Optimus Prime ascended our kind was led by Sentinel Prime, and only him. I remember when I wazza kid, hearin' about Optimus's ascension – it wazza big fuckin' deal because the old guy, Sentinel, had been Prime for for-fuckin'-ever and there were new policies comin' inta play when Optimus took over. They tried sommat new and split up the governing parties and created a military leader called the Lord Protector. Extremely long story short, the Lord Protector – Barricade's boss – created one mother of a civil war which took us d'fuck out as a species and now Optimus Prime only leads half of us. D' Autobots. D'other ones're called Decepticons an' … I don't even know _who_ d'fuck leads them now. Starscream, I figger."

"Huh," said the mechanic again. "Gotcha. I think."

"Yeah, it was a huge cluster. The Lord Protector, Megatron, basically stood up one day and went 'fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you're cool, fuck you, I'm out' and took over."

Romano had to laugh at that description. Then again it made him think of some super scary Decepticon leader dressed in a tiara and a tutu for some reason. Pink ruffles and warfare were so fashionable. "A'ight. And what are YOU fightin' fer?"

"Me as in personally or me as in those I fight with?"

"Yes."

Speedtrap considered that. "We as the Autobots fight for freedom and peace. I fight because it's d' right thing ta do. Can't let Megatron conquer the universe n' shit, can we?"

"And that's what Barricade wants to do. Help him conquer d' universe?" asked Mike tentatively. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Last we checked, man, his motives ain't changed a bit."

"What if they have?"

Speedtrap could not help the sharp guffaw that escaped his vocalizer. "Ya, uh huh. And I'm d' Queen of England."

Mike scowled, brow furrowing as he flicked the butt of his cigarette into the snow. "Ya think people can't change, man?"

"I'mma firm believer that people can change, pit, lookit me." The Goose pounded his left fist against his own chassis. "I was built by the same psychopath that built yer pug fugly buddy. He's m'brother. I _chose_ ta be somethin' different."

"Mary mother a' God," Romano moaned, rubbing his temple. "I'm stuck inna eternal episode a' alien robot Family Feud. Dere's fuckin' two a' ya."

Speedtrap turned that terrible razor sharp grin on the human once more. "Buddy, there's a lot of us. Mebbe not many of us still alive, but I did say d'guy who built us was a psychopath."

Mike stared at the seventeen foot monstrosity with a certain dubious air to him. He had to admit that the goose blue interceptor was far easier to hang out with than the grumbly, snarly Saleen he had gotten used to but something just smelled off. In the very same breath, it felt genuine and true. Romano tended to be at least halfway decent at reading people but if any word Speedtrap spoke turned out to be true than his people reading skills fucked him hard in this case. Barricade was a supposed sociopathic serial killer war machine and the ones he had been running from were trying to protect the mechanic and all the rest of Earth by …

_By destroying people like Barricade._

"Still, Halcyon days of peace," Mike murmured to himself. Speedtrap tilted his head.

"Bwuh?" In truth, the Goose had heard precisely what he said, but there was no harm in letting the fleshling pretend he had some privacy.

The described human looked up, brushing his scraggy brown hair out of his face. "It's written on the seals on Barricade's doors in Latin. I hadda send it in to a university professor I used ta know so he could ask the Latin professor there what it meant. Mebbe not alla 'dem want what dat Lord Protector wanted."

Speedtrap sighed. "Pay attention ta his rear quarter panels and what's written on 'em."

Romano thought about it, brow furrowing as it dawned on him. " … 'ta punish 'n enslave.'" He hadn't ever thought about it. "He's got a message of tyranny fuckin' written on one end and a message a' peace written on d' other."

The Goose nodded. "Y'see? Izzall psychological warfare, man," purred Speedtrap gently, as if he sympathized with the sudden quandary Michael Romano suddenly found himself in. "It's what 'e does."

Mike was severely frustrated. "I dunno what the fuck t'think. He still saved my ass. Got me out of real hot water, yannow? I wouldn't _be_ here if it wasn't fer 'im."

"An' he repaid yeh by kidnappin' yeh and draggin' yeh all the way 'cross th' country."

"'E needs somethin' from me. Repairs, mebbe."

"I doubt it, man. He's got a supercharged repair system dat's way more advanced than most a' us have."

"Yeah well d'last time I saw him he was so bad off he was walkin' inta trees."

Speedtrap arched an ugly brow, all four optics brightening. "Yeh sure it wasn't a lie?"

Mike threw his hands into the air and stood up. "No, I don't know if it was a fuckin' lie or not! A'ight? All I know is I fuckin' owe the guy, yannow what I'm sayin'? That's the reason I'm even here in d' first fuckin' place. Jesus. I dunno what he wants or where e's headed from here but don'tcha think a serial killer woulda killed me by now if dat was what he wanted? Christ. I dunno. I'll think about it, a'ight? Gimme a couple days and I'll track you down in town someplace and let you know."

It took Speedtrap several seconds to figure out that the fleshbag was referring to his offer: to take Mike home and keep an eye on him. "Yeah, man. I'll stick around."

Romano stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and walked around the blue mech, finding the Caliber had parked some short ways off of the road (the little hatchback held its own pretty well going off the pavement) and headed home.

Speedtrap looked over the arch of one massive shoulder, watching the fleshy until the headlights vanished in the slowly falling snow and the lingering sound of the Dodge Caliber's engine could no longer be heard. Left in the entombing silence of the forest in winter, he leaned forward and dug the colossal, heavy armored talons of his left hand deep into the frozen soil and heaped it onto the small fire, snuffing it completely with hardly a trace.

That man was up to his eyeballs in whatever game Barricade was playing and Speedtrap prayed for Mike's sake that he woke the fuck up, pronto.

* * *

_And the plot thickens. _

_To reiterate, Speedtrap belongs to Samma, steal him and I will murder your whole family infront of you. Also, apparently it needs saying more than once, Speedtrap is NOT PROWL or anyone else. He is Speedtrap, an OC. _

_Cheers_.


	24. The Value of Life

Collision XXIV

The Value of Life

by: The Feesh

Clear skies had given way to dark clouds, and by mid afternoon, the snow was falling in Santa Fe. The weatherman called for a good little blizzard, at least by New Mexico standards, which Mike estimated to be somewhere in the three inch range.

He had never seen people go so absolutely bonkers over the prospect of a couple of inches of snow. In New York, a man could still find his golf ball in three inches of the cold slushy white stuff, so it was fair game so far as they were concerned, but in Santa Fe? The very idea of a winter storm shut the goddamned city down. Families were bundling their kids up like the Michelin Tire man, grocery store shelves were left in dusty disrepair as worried New Mexicans picked them clean of bread, canned goods and water, and the lines in the gasoline stations were pretty phenomenal. It was unbelievably absurd.

Mike leaned on the balcony railing of his hotel room, clad in little more than jeans, a light jacket and a sweater. The cigarette that hung from his lips drooped in spent tobacco, causing the New Yorker to take it in two fingers to flick the extra ash from the end before it ended up burning a hole in his shirt. Barricade had been missing for two days. Romano had the feeling, that little irritating itch of knowledge buried at the back of his mind that said _he split, chill, g'wan home, man._ He was across the country on holiday, leaving Danny, Bugsy and the boys to run the garage while he was gone (they were less than thrilled with Romano's sudden unplanned vacation) and it was high time he got back to his life. But there was a reason that his voice of wisdom had been banished to the back-burner of his brain. Something just didn't feel right. The surly shithead Saleen had sent him to New Mexico for tools, which lead Michael rightly to believe that while staying off the Autobot's game trail had been paramount, but he had needed some manner of help with repairs. Some manner, he figured, that required small hands that failed to shake when under duress.

Hands like his own.

He found himself looking down at his palms, brown eyes narrowing as he studied the chapped and callous flesh. They were no longer the hands of a young man, fair and fresh, but those of one who worked hard and was getting on in age. Human hands told stories of their own, volumes of text and history written between the creases and buried in the armor-like callouses that covered the flesh. Mike idly wondered if similar tales could be gleaned in the intricate wear and tear of metal hands. Barricade's claws were worn, tarnished, cracked and pitted, and the human could only imagine what sort of toil those nightmarish talons had churned through in order to gain such damage. If anything Speedtrap had said several nights before had been true, Mike at least had an idea.

He wasn't certain he enjoyed the thought. But then again, what had he really expected? The interceptor who had wound up in his garage (interceptor? Robot. Giant robot) was nothing short of rampantly ornery and otherwise caustically dangerous, and Barricade had never hidden that fact. He made threats on a whim, threats Mike Romano figured he would just as easily go through with if pushed. He snarled and bickered and hurled vile insults that dripped with a sort of personal acid that made the greasemonkey wonder more than once if the Saleen didn't legitimately hate everything and everyone within the known universe. It made him wonder why the fuck he was bothering to help him at all.

Mike sighed softly, reaching up to run his fingers through his permanently tousled brown hair. There were times he asked himself just how the hell he had gotten in this mess in the first place. There wasn't _really_ much reason he couldn't just turn tail and go home. Sure, winter in Santa Fe would undoubtedly beat the cold in the Big Apple any day, but the bustling streets and mounds of dirty brown snow heaped onto the sidewalks was home. He didn't owe Barricade anything.

_Get in, fleshwad. Michael. **Michael.**_

He winced, automatically bringing a hand up to rub at the long numb scar in his shoulder. _So much fer goin' back_. Romano was never very good at being the selfish bastard most New Yorker's tended to pretend they were. They were a gruff and sour people, hiding behind their shield of crowbars and tough words, but when it counted the people of New York City would always unite under one banner. Mike thought back on the days after September eleventh, how it hadn't mattered what creed, nationality, race or what baseball jersey a person was wearing, they were welcome. Cops and criminals had come together to work side-by-side to dig survivors out of the wreckage of the fallen towers. Then people from all over the place started pouring in, and it didn't matter where they came from either. Human life had suddenly become so important that it shrouded previous differences until there simply were none. The mechanic flexed his hands, remembering the dust and debris as he, too, had sifted through the destruction in search of anyone who just needed someone to pull them free. What else was he supposed to do? It was _right_.

And in some way, Mike knew that this was, too.

In a wholly different way, of course. This wasn't human life at stake, buried under tons of rubble that ad been put there by religious extremists. But it was still a life. One life was no more or less important than the next.

By sundown the snow had started to come down in powerful gales (flurries, as Mike called them, this was a goddamned _dusting_ and nothing more), sending everyone huddling indoors. The New Yorker parked the Caliber on the side of the road and waited, watching the flakes fall through the faintly misty windshield as he smoked the last cancer stick in that pack. It might not have been snowing much, but it was cold, causing the thick-skinned northerner to don a heavier coat in preparation for what he was about to do. Ah, there. There was his partner in crime.

The blue Dodge Charger pulled up behind the white Caliber and flickered it's lights. "Change yer mind?"

Romano got out of the car and looked back at the talking trooper. "'Bout what?"

"Goin' home, like a smart mech. I mean, smart man."

Mike's brow furrowed. "Nope."

"No?" the amusement had washed out of Speedtrap's voice like a flash flood. "Then whatcha call me out here for?"

"We're goin' huntin', man." The smile Romano gave the Charger was firm, if not slightly unhinged. "Findin' that black fucker out there in the woods is gonna be like tryin' ta find a needle inna haystack. But I betcha _you_ can find him."

"And why ya say that?" drawled the faux-Detroiter, giving a lazy flick of his blinkers, almost like a smirk.

The mechanic was disturbed at how he was starting to be able to read vehicular body language. _Fuckkit all_. "Ya said ya were his brother, yeah? He was a blockage runner, you was a blockade enforcer. It was yer _job_ ta hunt and find _him_. Dig it?"

_Fucking fleshy got some brains._ "Yeah, I diggit. Arright, New York, gird yer loins. Let's go hunting."


End file.
